Being able to see things is a prerequisite to a decent sort of day for me. Imagine my indignation, then, when I realised I was missing a tiny, tiny screw from my spectacles which meant one of the lenses wouldn’t stay in. Go on, imagine it as I can’t be bothered to describe it.
I have prescriptions sunglasses so I was able to skulk around looking like a twatbag rockstar for a while- dark glasses indoors is such a sullen look. Then I skulked all the way over to my optician where they sorted out the tiny, tiny screw problem by inserting a new tiny, tiny screw – one with added adhesive for super grippy grip, no less – and allowing me to look like a non sullen, normal not twatbag rock star. For free. Imagine my sudden lack of indignation.
And now I find myself in town, capable of proper depth perception for the first time today without darkened hues all around me, wondering if this is the most significant moment of my entire Monday. It probably is, I mean I’m not very worthwhile so I have to grab significance where I can. If only I were a twatbag rockstar. What’s that now? I used to be a twatbag rockstar and I quit? Well yes but a man is allowed to change his mind every decade or so, isn’t he?
Don’t imagine it or your head will fall off.
Sundays are made from laziness and languid late lunches. And god. And maybe football if you like that sort of thing. Which I do. Sports. Sports. Sports. I’m all about sports. Except most sports. In fact I am totally not about most sports. I’m all about football. And want to be all about baseball only I live in stupid England and baseball isn’t very popular here. Oh and, like everyone in the UK, I’m totally all about tennis for the two weeks of the year that Wimbledon is played even though I failed to ever see anything tigerish about Tim Henman.
Hello. Is this your first time reading one of my blog posts? Excuse me breaking the fourth wall and addressing you directly. That’s a nice top you’re wearing, is it new? I just thought you should know that yes, these posts are mostly pointless dribble like this but now and then I come up with the greatest words in the history of all humankind. I don’t always get them in the right order. So, enjoy yourself, always read responsibly, eyes may go up as well as down the page, terms and conditions don’t apply.
Yeah, Henman was a fop. As I contemplate his pathetic fist pump and tendency to crumble in the latter stages of his home tournament I am savouring the aroma of the late and sure to be languid lunch currently cooking in my kitchen. Mmm, grilled cheese is a proper Sunday lunch, right? It’s not? Lucky for me I’m having a more traditional roast type thing, then.
Yeah, Henman was a fop.
Posted in Blogging, food, Life, Sport, Writing
Tagged baseball, England, Esso, food, football, god, put a tiger in your tank, Sport, Sunday, Sunday lunch, Tennis, Tiger, Tim Henman, Wimbledon
Life is struggle, some just struggle less than others. To be Darwinian for a moment, eat the poor. No sorry, that’s eugenics, not Darwinism. What I meant to say was that some of us are closer to the bottom of the existential food chain while others are corrupt fuckers controlling our lives. Or something less politically inflammatory if you can’t cope with harsh social realities.
I’ve been struggling this week. Struggling to cope with a downturn in my physical health; struggling to handle the postponement of the therapy session that should have happened on Wednesday; struggling to find purpose and momentum. No wonder I’m exhausted. I’ve spent much of today slobbing about eating sandwiches, drinking caffeine liquids and watching numpty crap on that internet of things.
There have been, as there always are, moments of wonder and joy even while my struggles have unfolded. None of us would stay interested in living for long if it were not this way. If medieval serfs could somehow have lived into their eighties would they actually have decided enough was enough with the downtrodden bullshit halfway through that time and just fallen down dead in the fields? Maybe that is what happened. Maybe science hasn’t increased lifespan at all, maybe a slight improvement in the everyday lot of the least privileged people has encouraged most of us not to check out before the end of the show.
My mind is in America most of the time now. If only fate would deign to show me a way I can arrange to have my body join it.
Posted in health, History, Life, mental health, Politics, science, Uncategorized
Tagged America, Darwin, Darwinism, eugenics, feudalism, food chain, internet, Medieval, Politics
There is a calmness to depression, an opiated sort of detachment from the sharper edges of reality even as those edges continue to cut us to ribbons. Some believe depression is a sign of weakness: I can’t offer a ten point logical argument against such narrow thinking because logic and the emotions rarely sit well together. All I can say is that depression seems to occur most in those who both think and feel very strongly and who become aware of the discord between those vital facets of human consciousness.
Which is why the calmness of a deeper state of depression can appear like a relief. All those powerful emotions, all those overwhelming trains of thought collide and explode like thunderstorms across the sky of the mind until something has to give. We tend to know it’s not really anybody else’s fault so becoming angry with the world doesn’t bring the same relief that turning anger inwards does. Yes, depression is anger turned inwards. When autonomy, when self-reliance and aspiration are snatched out of our hands by a relentless torrent of frustration, we take it out on ourselves and we close down.
Few people discuss it despite even the most conservative estimates pointing to something like one in six experiencing genuine depression in their lives. That’s more than a billion people, most of whom struggle to cope with their problems alone rather than admit to their distress. Meaning that on top of depression itself they have to also live with fear of exposure, they somehow have to look like they’re fine while their inner world sinks further in on itself, the distance between truth and falsehood stretched beyond limit by the effort of putting on a public face every day.
The deeper you fall the calmer you feel until you almost feel nothing at all. But the world still hammers on your door, the public face must still be worn, and feeling nothing becomes the ultimate goal. How to feel nothing when the world demands you feel what it expects you to feel? Depression’s final gift: leave the world behind. Unruly, disruptive, unsettling world. You’re happy without it, right?
Wrong. Of course wrong, but logic cannot always clear a path when emotion has become so overgrown. And now it is our own bramble depression cutting us to pieces which would be ironically amusing if it weren’t so brutally tragic. Keep calm and carry on? Surely it has to be better to raise the alarm and let the world know we’re struggling?
I was low before I even heard that there is to be a snap election in June, one which looks likely to bury the Labour Party forever and with it any hopes whatsoever of British government post Brexit being interested in the welfare of ordinary people . This was just the turd icing on an already shitty state of mind.
I’m having a flare-up with my respiratory stuff. For a week or so it’s been uncertain if it’s a genuine flare-up or just a nasty cough (there’s been one doing the rounds); now there is certainty. Shitty, respiratory flare-up confirmation certainty. I hurt, my sleep is all over the fucking place, I can’t move about without needing to stop frequently and thinly catch my breath and I’m having to fight to get food inside me as my appetite has typically deserted me just when I need it the most.
It’s how it is. Been here before. One day it will kill me off but hopefully not this time around. I still have hopes and dreams to aim myself at. I still aspire to experiencing more and travelling a little more too. Of course I’m well aware that just because I want to carry on living there is no guarantee I will. I don’t run the universe. When the world is done with me then it’s done with me, not much I can do about that beyond cowering behind my medicines and proclaiming how unfair it seems.
Which sounds resigned and depressive, eh? Duh! I am depressed. So would you be. Maybe you wouldn’t be resigned. Then again, after fighting this fucking shit half your life, maybe you would be.
Posted in food, health, Life, mental health, Politics, travel
Tagged Brexit, Depression, General Election, health, illness, Labour Party, mental health, Politics
Insomnus. Lacksasleepicals. Fuggin’ tired.
Basically my body doesn’t like UK time these days. UK time doesn’t taste like America times (they have several) and I blame Brexit for making me feel like this isn’t my country, these are no longer my people. I also blame Brexit for the cancellation of Firefly. And for the Boer War.
I finally done sleeps at eight of the morning. What a stupid time to do sleeps. For four hours. What a stupidly small amount of sleeps at a stupid time. Moan. Grumble. Self pity.
Sadness, in actual fact. I just feel sad at the moment. Not a debilitating sorrow, not a burning grief, just a sadness that lingers like never fully thawing ice in a mountaintop crevasse. It’s rarely healthy to want things that are improbable goals but I cannot deny I currently long for improbable things. It’s never healthy to ruminate on ‘what if’ but my mind is full of them right now.
There are daily distractions and delights to help me through the weeks despite my sadness. Some of them lessen the weight a while; some simply add to the yearning for miraculous change. If sleep will befriend me again I’m sure I’ll pass through this downturn. Unless I’m attacked by robot bees.
Posted in health, Life, mental health, Politics, television
Tagged America, Boer War, Brexit, counting sheep, Firefly, Insomnia, sadness, Sleep, United Kingdom
I speak in riddles to myself, rhyming sounds with curious texture. Inside only, indoor voice. A taste of quiet slowly dissolving on the tongue like lost seawater seeping back into forgotten sand. There are green and grey oceans too far out of reach, skies made of time spent searching for the perfect cove, that golden, isolated beach where I can fall face down into the surf, begging fate to throw me to the will or wisdom of the waves.
Five hand drawn lines uncluttered by notation reveal the only song I truly know. Certainty, like tiny beads of morning dew, evaporates on approach, relocated to the eyes I hardly ever use to see the dirt or dust. The world, a frothing, fretting lake of fierce and fearful feeling, will never hear my song, will never learn to listen, will fall apart and fall away and fall just like the first time round and so we start again.