deceit and deception

old and almost-forgotten hurts make their presence felt. the bile churns as of old. 16-18-21, a night out with the girls. grandmother's hand clenched on an iron grill. do i care? apparently. why, though? why? i cannot fathom. ah, timing. (7:24 a.m. nefarious child out on her night of debauchery) i can't stop the stupidity. i've forgotten what this post was supposed to be about. i remember it having the pain. and then there's the new pain. and the compliments. compliments are losing their power. am i vain? how stupid, on a scale of one to ten? 16-18-21, a pretty phrase; i'll repeat it till i feel better. driving in the dark. dancing in smoke. i like him. i said it. don't think it's a pass, he said. how we dance, to be sure.
how easy to pretend. why is it? easy to pretend nothing is ever wrong. easy to pretend the things i guess are all active imagination. defense mechanism, coping mechanism, human protective coating. why does she avoid me? and i feel so much and guess so much, and i believe none of it because i may be wrong. but now i think that the reason i don't believe is because i may be right. and when you're right it hurts and hurts. too much pain. i want to be . it would help, i think. so many parts to a person. won't you stop and ask me what's wrong?

nick drake gives me the whim-whams, and kate rusby the breaking insides. i want to be kissed. the butterscotch tuberoses. i am jealous of all the people who have it. i must keep the faith, london bridge. the friends will help. so will family. one less bothers me. i am glad it does. it's just her, just her. i don't want to admit it. why? because it is hard to admit you care. when it's true, it's hard. i wish i hadn't been right. i often wish that. strange, it all seems. clairvoyance, or just plain sensible foresight? my heart squeezed and my lips heavy, heavy.

do i make things happen by believing?

phone temptations

someone please explain to me my need for self destruction. and while you're at it, tell me why i always go one further than needed.
the unavailable, it's always been. never have i thought of one when there was a chance. chances scare me. as do most things in life, apparently. i could see a future with any of them, did you know? all that's needed is a smidgen of imagination. there's something special about each, but it all comes right back to me anyhow - whether it's things we both love, or enjoy, or laugh at. or whether i am the one courted and wooed by one with whom there's nothing in common. confusion is a natural state of mind. and the long nights are helping.

as is fiona.

i think a lot more when i'm working. or supposed to be working. all my best writing has been done when my head and mind and body refused to sit down and complete the load of work looming overhead. and the wildest writing was always for boys. let's face it - the two of them effectively destroyed my concentration. no, wait. let's not blame them, the fault was all mine. the fault has always been mine. and that makes it harder to fix than otherwise. blame and guilt on either side of this equation. radiohead now. sections to do, and a model to complete, and printing to be done as well. and all i can do is think of one and two and three and four. each seems to lead to the other (only that one is always ready to leap out into my head. so is three lately. and i will keep thinking, what does it all mean?), and then comes five. stops there unless i press, and then the whole gamut of them will come thundering into my head and i will think again about how odd the world is, and how wonderful, and why there is no one for me.

possible people

meh. I'm tired of waiting for blogger beta.

for once, i am confident i can finish a substantial chunk of work. it feels good.

in other news, old twinges still surprise me. how long is it going to last? i was thinking. how strange it is that i always end up thinking about certain people whenever i start thinking at all? it isn't voluntary, i don't think. it just seems to happen, an uncontrollable little chain reaction that runs quietly from random thought to person a, to person b and then c and d and all the others in a strangely intricate mental map.
i wanted to make a list.

crossword, coffee, beaches, blog, blog, blog, blog, snob, sellar, digger, rainman, misfit, misfit, toothache. i'm missing too many. are the associations so poor? i will take the risk, then, and name them. doc, vishwa, vin, pa, ma, fu, prof, san, monk, dre, the singhs, the ding, id, sapru, ug, duende. half these people i've not seen in real life. the order is all jumbled up in my head. as are my feelings for all of them. strangely, about the girls as much as the guys. new friends. new friends rearrange perspectives.

i wonder how much of these people i have extrapolated from my own wishes to have them just so, and the need to fit them in my neat little labelled jars. they all make me smile, though, i'll grant that. just for that, the extrapolation should be worth it, surely?
hmmm. the buzz is gone again. not right that i should grant a person that power.

someone's been here who shouldn't. i wonder about that, too.

yellow

fear. it's the feeling where my throat is tight and my chest is tight, and i have to bite my lip to keep from throwing myself off something; where i go around trying not to keep putting my hand up to my mouth because i'm afraid i'll scream; where everything seems so much more so, and me always less.
it's the feeling for the sweepy songs. for the hard hugs. for the rocking. for the walks. for the writing.
it's the feeling i hate right up there with the guilt, probably because they are sister concerns; the feeling i get when there is the word disappointment looming over the horizon.

i don't know what brought it on. there are only two things it could be, and neither makes any sense. it can't be him, there's nothing there, i thought this had been put to rest. and if it's work, i still can't understand it. the time isn't that close, is it? it isn't. i can finish. can't i? can't i?
times like these are when i understand why cowardice is easy.

help help help help help help

The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seem limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your seccret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.

King and heartburn and phone calls. What am I doing with my life?

midnight aches

And it's fifteen minutes past midnight. I've just spent the last eight hours doing nothing. It is a constant source of mild alarm to me how I can sit in front of the computer for half the day; ostensibly working as hard as I can; and end up with a drawing that is only marginally different from the one I made in ten minutes a week ago. Why can't I do anything with a little conviction? Why is design so hard?

The earliest meaning of the word “quick” in English is “alive.”
I guessed it, did you know? Well, I did.

Alright. So.
I will finish my work for Friday.
No excuses, no shirking, no lies.
The power of positive thinking better make itself felt fast.

Oh, help.

what is it?

I feel things changing. I can't tell what, and I'm not worrying, which is new. There is no one I am next to, right now. They are all just the pebbles.
His advice is terrible. Let's be frank. I will not just pick anyone. Someone has to find me. Is waiting really that bad?

I worry again that I will say yes no matter who asks. I worried before. Oh the danger, I said.
That is a mistake. But I fear it's entirely too probable. We will see how well the foreboding forebodes.

not for anyone

Dear heart
It has been oh, so long since I wrote you a letter - one of the good ones, the ones with the little new turns of phrase I love, the ones I spend at least two days writing in my head before I even think of putting the words where I can see them.
I've needed someone to talk to really badly, and much to my chagrin discovered that you were the only one I actually felt comfortable telling. Let's be frank, babe. There's no doubt that the comfort levels are entirely my doing. I would probably feel easy in my mind about writing long personal letters to almost anyone, all I need to do is invest them with some imagined interest in my wellbeing.
I wrote this letter out the whole of today, and as usual, it sounded much much better in my head. Heads are good places to be when you need to feel sorry for yourself. Also when you need some sympathy. My head is my friend.

I wish I could still write you real letters. *sigh* I wish many things, almost all of them pointless and stupid. I just felt a lot better when there was a real person at whom I could ramble.
The fact is that things have changed. They do. People change. Relationships change. It's all a series of meanderings and I need constants somewhere. I think the best way is to continue to write you without expectations of replies, perhaps because I won't ever be sending you any of the letters I write.
Self therapy is all very well, but when you've had a taste of something better, you tend to see what's missing more than what's actually there.

That's the end of this one.
I'll definitely be adding more.
All my love always
T

big fat liar

I don't like lies. Every lie I tell turns into another festering boil that I would fain get rid of, but can't, more's the pity. Parents, teachers, friends, family. Myself. It's incredibly easy to lie. Far too easy. Sometimes I wonder how many people I talk to lie to me, and the answer always seems to be, more than you'll ever know. If it's so easy to lie, isn't it logical to assume that almost everyone does it? But of course. Telling the truth is a chore, and an often painful one into the bargain. What I've tried to do all these years is create a foolproof alibi, one that will stand up purely because it is true; and that is, that I don't lie. To be able to say that, and mean it, is something I've managed almost all my life. And now, suddenly, the little untruths tumble out unheeded, and break into pieces my idea of me. I can't be proud to be someone who has no respect for the truth.
I need to fix this, fast fast fast.

new worries

Alarm bells are ringing again. I'm not surprised, per se; it just seemed a little unexpected. I've never really been wrong. Just premature, sometimes. But then again, there's always the fear that something will come true only because you think it might, true? Hmmm. I think I have been wrong. Rather glaringly. But you learn from mistakes, yes? Do I? Do I learn anything at all? Right now is a huge worry, and I know what it's about. I just don't know what it is. "People happened", I told him. I need to find someone to talk to, really talk to; and really really soon. The holding things in is becoming harder. I've never believed in advice, and now, suddenly I need it, and the belief just came along in the easiest way possible.
In other news, there's the toast. Rhyming is easy when you don't mean what you're saying. That's my bit of wisdom for the ages. In fact I think it deserves a poem. In rhyme. Metered. One that scans.
The comfort went away. I didn't really know it was there. Perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was discomfort that came along.

And one more thing. The capitalization is here to stay, I think. Could have been worse, certainly.
It always can.


And the therapy goes on. It's characteristic of me that any new love will get drained through in an orgy of addiction till the phase passes, and this time, Pratchett is it. Very emphatically so. I will be reading the rest of them over the next few days. I don't think this is a good thing in any circumstance, and especially not now! I will ride it out much like all the other things. It's the only way.

my mother's daughter

lately i have begun to understand better why i seem not to like the idea of dating. the fact is that my gut knee-jerk reaction to male attention always turns out to be "bugger off, i'm not interested".
the truth is, you never know. you can't know any other human being at all. i've barely begun to know myself, and i try to find a way to slip that in wherever possible in conversations both virtual and not-virtual. perhaps i should have said on-line? so trite, though. eh.
i'm just going to hang around till that big something special happens. faith is just faith, no? and terry makes a whole lot of sense. i find myself nodding along almost all the time. the time i don't spend clutching my stomach from laughing, anyway.
this post is conscious. oh, no :(

with time, perhaps.


as post script:
my mother's daughter

tired

Baby.
I am getting absent-minded again. Mind wanderings and body wanderings. Not good.