Except for two laughing at me... but I don't mind so much.
My best compliment was:
"The help you give is really good, not everyone's is so good".
From the French. I like the woman that gave it, and I like the child I help there- but I can't help thinking it's too easy. I mean, I'm not MC, I haven't got a relationship. I haven't won any badasses over. I know a bit of French, but MC's definitely clever enough to know it, and gets on fine without it, so it's not that I'm doing something she couldn't do.
But it's good to think that someone thinks I'm doing the right thing, after me being worried that I'm constantly doing the wrong thing and wondering if it's OK.
I like my job.
I like you.
Your hair caught the light shafts this morning, in assembly. I always thought it was grey, grey iron grey, but in the light it was brown, chestnut almost red, my colour. I should have known you'd have mercurial hair. Looking at you reminded me of this indian myth I'd read as a child; about a girl who was old in winter and young in summer. You looked halfway through that change, with half your hair lit and your face framed in grey. Beautiful both ways. I like the pride of your profile and the sense of your glasses. They're a sensible cats-eye shape with silver edging on the top. I wonder if you've been taken in hand by someone, because you look years younger than you do on your picture that's on the card. They moan about you in the staffroom, I wonder if they bitch about me too?
Though you are so proud, and a little bit awkward sounding on the phone.
Monday, 16 March 2009
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Here's the thing.
You have placed a chill in my heart.
Through screaming corridors and pent up girls you're unfurled. That's wrong, there's nothing so sweet about you as that word, unfurled, though it does circumnavigate the kind of calm you produce. Still stood, maybe. You are kind.
You sat at the table, where DD and I were talking, and I'd never seen you be tired before, but you were. You leant your head on your forearms on the table and the strong silken strands fanned out from the centre of your scalp, they range brown to grey, like a halo. I would have liked to stroke your hair. I like the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. Your hair falls back to that perfect bob whenever you move your head.
DD is garrulous to a fault (though she knows what she's doing, she's definite and good about it, not like I am... she knows the rules). I have not a clue. You're like that too, and maybe it's because I always want to listen to what you say, but I think you talk the right amount. Not too much and not too little. You can be silent and you can laugh. You're very beautiful.
Through screaming corridors and pent up girls you're unfurled. That's wrong, there's nothing so sweet about you as that word, unfurled, though it does circumnavigate the kind of calm you produce. Still stood, maybe. You are kind.
You sat at the table, where DD and I were talking, and I'd never seen you be tired before, but you were. You leant your head on your forearms on the table and the strong silken strands fanned out from the centre of your scalp, they range brown to grey, like a halo. I would have liked to stroke your hair. I like the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. Your hair falls back to that perfect bob whenever you move your head.
DD is garrulous to a fault (though she knows what she's doing, she's definite and good about it, not like I am... she knows the rules). I have not a clue. You're like that too, and maybe it's because I always want to listen to what you say, but I think you talk the right amount. Not too much and not too little. You can be silent and you can laugh. You're very beautiful.
I ate a lot today.
apple-40
pasta-400
cereals-300
1/2 a bagel-100
1/2 a croissant-100
940
2 sausages, some mash and some veg-400
6 chocolates-200
twix-280
So 1800. It could be worse, and it could be better. Tomorrow will be above count as well, because I'm planning on drinking.
You weren't in today, I don't know where you were. There was a bit of a weird atmosphere, I couldn't figure out what was going on, I didn't know what to do when I thought someone was being bullied and they don't really respect me... so I suppose I'll have to do more about it. I'll have to think properly. I feel like everyone knows how to do my job better than I do, even my Dad, who I've always regarded as something of an autistic savante. He's not meant to know people. I don't know people, and I certainly can't command them. Occasionally I can charm, but that's wearing thin in this job, where it's about personality, not charm. Charm's a veneer for those that don't know better, that haven't got real substance. I worry I don't know enough about people to be sure what I'm doing is right, and I worry what I'm doing is wrong, and I worry that even if I do make a move it'll screw up whatever everyone else is doing.
apple-40
pasta-400
cereals-300
1/2 a bagel-100
1/2 a croissant-100
940
2 sausages, some mash and some veg-400
6 chocolates-200
twix-280
So 1800. It could be worse, and it could be better. Tomorrow will be above count as well, because I'm planning on drinking.
You weren't in today, I don't know where you were. There was a bit of a weird atmosphere, I couldn't figure out what was going on, I didn't know what to do when I thought someone was being bullied and they don't really respect me... so I suppose I'll have to do more about it. I'll have to think properly. I feel like everyone knows how to do my job better than I do, even my Dad, who I've always regarded as something of an autistic savante. He's not meant to know people. I don't know people, and I certainly can't command them. Occasionally I can charm, but that's wearing thin in this job, where it's about personality, not charm. Charm's a veneer for those that don't know better, that haven't got real substance. I worry I don't know enough about people to be sure what I'm doing is right, and I worry what I'm doing is wrong, and I worry that even if I do make a move it'll screw up whatever everyone else is doing.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
I ate today:
an apple-50
a pasta pot-400
cake-300
grape juice-150
pizza=300
an eccles cake-300
900 and 600 is 1500. I haven't burnt enough calories for that; it would have been fine, I didn't really need the whole eccles cake. I could have not eaten that. Tomorrow's plan is to go on a walk and not think so much about food; to have my snack coming in, and then wait. I might weigh myself on Friday, or go and
I ate about four (maybe five) pieces of veg and fruit.
Anyway. You're beautiful, as usual.
I am worried about my job, and whether I'm good at it or not.
an apple-50
a pasta pot-400
cake-300
grape juice-150
pizza=300
an eccles cake-300
900 and 600 is 1500. I haven't burnt enough calories for that; it would have been fine, I didn't really need the whole eccles cake. I could have not eaten that. Tomorrow's plan is to go on a walk and not think so much about food; to have my snack coming in, and then wait. I might weigh myself on Friday, or go and
I ate about four (maybe five) pieces of veg and fruit.
Anyway. You're beautiful, as usual.
I am worried about my job, and whether I'm good at it or not.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Would you still think I was beautiful if you knew that I was ineffective?
I have a lack of authority.
I don't want to be JM, but I might be headed that way.
I'd rather be MC. I think she should be a teacher. She's brilliant at what she does. I don't think GCSE's matter particularly- it's evident she's bright enough for pretty much anything, I'd listen if she taught, and she'd do it a damn sight better than I do.
They think she's cool, and they respect her- but I can't do that, because I try too hard and I'm some kind of autistic spectrum somehow, behaviour from books.
Calories today:
An apple-40
A sandwich (tuna and cucumber)-350
cake -300
a smoothie-150
spaghetti-350
All in all, 1200. I think that's pretty good. I didn't let myself starve and I didn't gorge either- it worked out pretty well.
Anyway, you talked to me today about your daughter who shares a health problem with me. You wanted to know about curing it, and I suggested weight gain. You laughed. You said your daughter's blonde and fair. Were you? I can't quite believe it. I catch hints of brown in your hair sometimes. I conjured up a fairy child, about my age, but maybe that's not it. You didn't say, yes, she could do with gaining a few stone. You said, it's not the way women's body image is, is it? Buck the trend, then you laughed. I wish I knew how you felt about calories and all the rest. Ridiculous or not? Something you secretly abide by?
This disease, it's not anything mental- it's a circulatory problem.
I liked when you sat opposite me when I was marking things and looked very earnest. It's evident that you love your family. Beautiful hair, lovely face. It's never as elegant in my drawings as it is in real life. I try to be true, adding the bump in your nose, but I harden your jawline too much and I make your nose too big, and your eyes are too small to be real. In real life, you're far more attractive a prospect. Bright blue eyes and a dignified nose, but it's not too big, it's the right sort of size for your face. Long and sculpted, dignified, of course, like everything about you. I like the way your trousers hang about your long slim legs, and the way you're bundled safe into black velvet. I even like those ugly boots you wear.
Why don't you like non-uniform days? You don't seem overly prim, just staid enough to be safe and to make me feel better about being around you. Are you like me, you don't want to wear normal clothes to work because they're scruffier than what you always wear? You rotate your wardrobe every week, so maybe these are the only clothes you have. Maybe you're disappointed about how you look in clothes? I'm not. You're seldom seen out of work, because you've got nothing to wear? Because you don't care, and you don't want anything because you're happy going rambling and feeding chickens and driving about visiting far off peaks? This is what I imagine, the last one. Am I one of the beautiful people? I daresay no. I think your estimation of me is a flitty young thing who's ridiculous, at times, and far too optimistic. Flippant and insubstantial.
I don't know if I could sink into you, the way I used to want to, because I feel like I'm falling short, but I do still hold you in the highest regard. Love letters not for recipient.
I don't want to be JM, but I might be headed that way.
I'd rather be MC. I think she should be a teacher. She's brilliant at what she does. I don't think GCSE's matter particularly- it's evident she's bright enough for pretty much anything, I'd listen if she taught, and she'd do it a damn sight better than I do.
They think she's cool, and they respect her- but I can't do that, because I try too hard and I'm some kind of autistic spectrum somehow, behaviour from books.
Calories today:
An apple-40
A sandwich (tuna and cucumber)-350
cake -300
a smoothie-150
spaghetti-350
All in all, 1200. I think that's pretty good. I didn't let myself starve and I didn't gorge either- it worked out pretty well.
Anyway, you talked to me today about your daughter who shares a health problem with me. You wanted to know about curing it, and I suggested weight gain. You laughed. You said your daughter's blonde and fair. Were you? I can't quite believe it. I catch hints of brown in your hair sometimes. I conjured up a fairy child, about my age, but maybe that's not it. You didn't say, yes, she could do with gaining a few stone. You said, it's not the way women's body image is, is it? Buck the trend, then you laughed. I wish I knew how you felt about calories and all the rest. Ridiculous or not? Something you secretly abide by?
This disease, it's not anything mental- it's a circulatory problem.
I liked when you sat opposite me when I was marking things and looked very earnest. It's evident that you love your family. Beautiful hair, lovely face. It's never as elegant in my drawings as it is in real life. I try to be true, adding the bump in your nose, but I harden your jawline too much and I make your nose too big, and your eyes are too small to be real. In real life, you're far more attractive a prospect. Bright blue eyes and a dignified nose, but it's not too big, it's the right sort of size for your face. Long and sculpted, dignified, of course, like everything about you. I like the way your trousers hang about your long slim legs, and the way you're bundled safe into black velvet. I even like those ugly boots you wear.
Why don't you like non-uniform days? You don't seem overly prim, just staid enough to be safe and to make me feel better about being around you. Are you like me, you don't want to wear normal clothes to work because they're scruffier than what you always wear? You rotate your wardrobe every week, so maybe these are the only clothes you have. Maybe you're disappointed about how you look in clothes? I'm not. You're seldom seen out of work, because you've got nothing to wear? Because you don't care, and you don't want anything because you're happy going rambling and feeding chickens and driving about visiting far off peaks? This is what I imagine, the last one. Am I one of the beautiful people? I daresay no. I think your estimation of me is a flitty young thing who's ridiculous, at times, and far too optimistic. Flippant and insubstantial.
I don't know if I could sink into you, the way I used to want to, because I feel like I'm falling short, but I do still hold you in the highest regard. Love letters not for recipient.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Rambling all over you.
I wonder what your husband says when you trot in from work? I wonder if he tells you you're beautiful? I so want someone to be telling you what you're worth in my estimation, so you know you've got someone's esteem well and truly pinned without trying, particularly. Who is it that you come out and chat for? Is it JM, or is it AG? I can't decide.
Another day of counting wrong and wondering if I really know what I want. But at least I've got options, lots of them.
Oh darling, the reason I like you is that you're safe. You don't smoke or drink much, I don't think, and you don't get angry, not really. You're so private and closed off, and I just want to open you up and see you really, properly. I'm stockpiling the compliments that other people give you. "She had a nice air about her, decent". Did you know someone said that today? She's right. You have got that reassuring calm quality. I'm always fractious. You're not the sort of person that would want to have threesomes, or elaborate sex with whips and chains (or maybe you are, and that's your secret?). I'd think you'd be the kind that would curl up in bed, and slowly undress between covers, very sweet and gentle, and firm. Shy. I can tell you're shy by the way you fidget with pens and cross one long leg over the other, and the way you hunch your shoulders round your heart. Is that to stop anyone else seeing what's inside? I'd like to see. You weren't angry when I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Your name backwards sounds latinate scandinavian, like some kind of fresh spring blooming flower. That's not you at all, you're a tree. Perennial, something hardy and interesting to look at. An elm, or oak. You're nothing so stampable as a flower. There's something very jointed and delicate about you, though, despite the way you career about dropping your lunch. DD nitpicked in your office- she was shocked you'd left your pay packet on the desk. I thought that was good. You trust us not to look, see. That's what I wanted to say, but there's a certain way of saying.
I like you, anyway. Hecate.
Another day of counting wrong and wondering if I really know what I want. But at least I've got options, lots of them.
Oh darling, the reason I like you is that you're safe. You don't smoke or drink much, I don't think, and you don't get angry, not really. You're so private and closed off, and I just want to open you up and see you really, properly. I'm stockpiling the compliments that other people give you. "She had a nice air about her, decent". Did you know someone said that today? She's right. You have got that reassuring calm quality. I'm always fractious. You're not the sort of person that would want to have threesomes, or elaborate sex with whips and chains (or maybe you are, and that's your secret?). I'd think you'd be the kind that would curl up in bed, and slowly undress between covers, very sweet and gentle, and firm. Shy. I can tell you're shy by the way you fidget with pens and cross one long leg over the other, and the way you hunch your shoulders round your heart. Is that to stop anyone else seeing what's inside? I'd like to see. You weren't angry when I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Your name backwards sounds latinate scandinavian, like some kind of fresh spring blooming flower. That's not you at all, you're a tree. Perennial, something hardy and interesting to look at. An elm, or oak. You're nothing so stampable as a flower. There's something very jointed and delicate about you, though, despite the way you career about dropping your lunch. DD nitpicked in your office- she was shocked you'd left your pay packet on the desk. I thought that was good. You trust us not to look, see. That's what I wanted to say, but there's a certain way of saying.
I like you, anyway. Hecate.
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
I like my job, but I'm terrified I'm no good at it at all.
Have I got the right stuff? I can't seem to make people listen to me.
I don't know. I don't even think it's because I'm young, it's something else entirely.
Oh oh, how you're my hero.
I do like you a lot; I'm so tired. I like being tired, it makes me feel satisfied about how I've spent the day. You're about five feet eight, same as me, in stocking feet. Maybe five seven. Morose rollicking walk. It's strange that the way you move can evoke both those things, you oxymoron, maybe it's you instead, because your hair's sensible and so are your clothes, always with a little suggestion you'd have liked to be something else... a whimsical brooch on sensible black velvet. I wonder what you were like, when you were young? I wonder what your middle name is. You're no iron lady. Your hair sits just below your strong jawline. I can't get over how lovely it is, I just want to look. All the time.
We stood very close together the other day, so close that we were almost touching. I wondered what you'd do if, there and then, I reached out and held your hand. I stood so that you were in the corner of my eye, just a glint of steely bob and the light flashing off your glasses from the window reflection, and a grey-clad shoulder. Always in grey or black and white, or clean turquoise (a nod to liveliness) but always the muted widowing shades. I suppose I like them too, looking gothic as I do, but there's always some vibrancy. No warm colours for you, though. No reds, no browns. Rarely a cream. Not even a necklace, but you do wear a watch. I bet you think I'm silly- two necklaces that alternate to cover my lack of bust, and no watch whatsoever. You must think I'm just floating about the place, not even anchored by time to anything of any use. I wondered if you'd come in just for me, just to chat to me. I don't think that's the case at all. I just wanted to indulge the fantasy.
All the people I work with radiate an air of safety, this air that whatever you tell them it will be alright, and whatever anyone else does around them will not penetrate their safe aura. They're not feared people, but they're healers. I am no healer. I am drifting and tangential and tangled, and they're simplifiers that lead and assuage. I am not that good at this. I can fake the voice, but it's flat not warm, I can fake smiling but I'll always look strange-skewed over awkwardness. This isn't a job for anyone on the autistic spectrum, I reckon. I can't make them feel safe, and that's what makes me feel bad. I can't create a safe environment because I've got no control.
So here is what I must do. I must expect to have control, think of more things to do, and expect to be a safe person that can talk and ask and not be shy about giving compliments.
I couldn't care less about what I've eaten today because it's all going to be wrong anyway. At least I got five portions of fruit and veg.
I don't know. I don't even think it's because I'm young, it's something else entirely.
Oh oh, how you're my hero.
I do like you a lot; I'm so tired. I like being tired, it makes me feel satisfied about how I've spent the day. You're about five feet eight, same as me, in stocking feet. Maybe five seven. Morose rollicking walk. It's strange that the way you move can evoke both those things, you oxymoron, maybe it's you instead, because your hair's sensible and so are your clothes, always with a little suggestion you'd have liked to be something else... a whimsical brooch on sensible black velvet. I wonder what you were like, when you were young? I wonder what your middle name is. You're no iron lady. Your hair sits just below your strong jawline. I can't get over how lovely it is, I just want to look. All the time.
We stood very close together the other day, so close that we were almost touching. I wondered what you'd do if, there and then, I reached out and held your hand. I stood so that you were in the corner of my eye, just a glint of steely bob and the light flashing off your glasses from the window reflection, and a grey-clad shoulder. Always in grey or black and white, or clean turquoise (a nod to liveliness) but always the muted widowing shades. I suppose I like them too, looking gothic as I do, but there's always some vibrancy. No warm colours for you, though. No reds, no browns. Rarely a cream. Not even a necklace, but you do wear a watch. I bet you think I'm silly- two necklaces that alternate to cover my lack of bust, and no watch whatsoever. You must think I'm just floating about the place, not even anchored by time to anything of any use. I wondered if you'd come in just for me, just to chat to me. I don't think that's the case at all. I just wanted to indulge the fantasy.
All the people I work with radiate an air of safety, this air that whatever you tell them it will be alright, and whatever anyone else does around them will not penetrate their safe aura. They're not feared people, but they're healers. I am no healer. I am drifting and tangential and tangled, and they're simplifiers that lead and assuage. I am not that good at this. I can fake the voice, but it's flat not warm, I can fake smiling but I'll always look strange-skewed over awkwardness. This isn't a job for anyone on the autistic spectrum, I reckon. I can't make them feel safe, and that's what makes me feel bad. I can't create a safe environment because I've got no control.
So here is what I must do. I must expect to have control, think of more things to do, and expect to be a safe person that can talk and ask and not be shy about giving compliments.
I couldn't care less about what I've eaten today because it's all going to be wrong anyway. At least I got five portions of fruit and veg.
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