Alas, I was wrong.
A-gain.
Boys ARE stupid. Throw rocks at them.

#dng_tees

Fidgety. Nervous. AND DON'T TELL ME PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE!

Foul mood. DO NOT tease the animal!

Boredom kills.

On Saturday, a lovely man made blackberry ice cream - from scratch. Just for me.

THAT's the way to impress a lady, Mr. I-cry-on-couches.

I did TWO Yoga sessions this morning and ran a marathon, feel ready for whatever. Bring it on!

#lyingfornoreason

Don Draper: The next thing will be better. Because it always is.

Ah, the joys of the perpetual hunt...

Useless knowledge that was imparted on me last week: I don't miss you when I'm not with you.

Hm, how to reply?

Bad: grown men crying on your couch.
Worse: you comforting them.
BUCK THE FUCK UP!

And I shall not be made to eat my words... despite recent events and the emergence of a rather charming and handsome young man on the "tableau* of my life".
I remain on this "island" of mine. Of course, we all know, thanks to Donne's John and his many meditations, that No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
Be that as it may - rather than being an island, which apparently no one can do, I shall simply remain on the island which I have created for myself. Think less Gilligan's and more a "Do not disturb" on the doorknob to my life.



*tableau indeed! StagnationRUs

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter

Every year I have this thought (amazing, I know). It comes with spring, comes with the blossoming, the bursting, the chirping and trilling. It's a silent resigned recognition, perhaps a prediction, a self-fulfilling prophecy even.
"Another lonely Spring" are the words of my spell. And after all these years I've finally come to like it. In spite of my wailing and whinging, I rejoice quietly, I thank the heavens, the fates, the gods for leaving me be.
Deep down I know it is best like this.
And though I may profess to loneliness - which I do and which I feel on occasion - I also know full well that certain things in my life (and of me, come to think of it) are best kept to myself, are best not shared.
And that's ok. Perhaps the heart and soul in time stop screaming for communication and understanding. Or maybe it is simply a matter of one being not as desperate to find one's soul mate as when one was younger...?

Blogging The Unquiet

I mentioned travelling of the mind the other day. And while I enjoy travelling on my own, I sometimes ask The Gentle Author of http://spitalfieldslife.com/ to take be my the hand and guide me through his/her world.

Wondrous, wondrous walks we take.

There's this  interview with him/her I wish to keep in order to remind myself that indeed, "...writing is the outcome of an unquiet mind."

http://www.66000milesperhour.com/2012/02/the-gentle-author-of-spitalfields-life/

I sometimes wish blogging felt more like collaging or scrapbooking.
I miss that you can't really allow for creative chaos/messiness. At least I never have found a way. My notebooks look so different from the ordered entries with tags and neat lines and the occasional, neatly placed and cut picture.

More scribbling and doodling I say!

When speaking of the unquiet mind and the use a blog can be with that, I must agree but add that blogging seems to fail me at times.
I need the feel of pen on paper like I prefer to read my book in hand and not on a screen.
I am old-fashioned, I am clumsy in this world of sleekness. And sometimes I wonder whether blogging is the right medium for me.

Of course, you cannot argue about the immediacy and number of readers you may reach by just clicking a few keys rather than having it printed on paper which is pretty damn fast these days but still nowhere near fast enough for high-speed info-sharing online.
And I do like "fastness". I am terrible at waiting. I am, however, very good at impatience.

And so I take the very good and fast with the "not REALLY bad" in the guise of a lack of mess and will be happy in the knowledge that I can always choose.
Which is nice, I figure.

Learning Curves Are Tricky Things

Ok, yesterday's rant may have been a little unfair.
To my fellow women in their not-so-sad late 30's.
And to Alex Turner, who after all is only a baby. And let's face it, when you're his age you do think the world owes you pretty girls, or handsome boys for that matter.Most of the time you stumble around not knowing what the fuck you want. That you occasionally still do at the ripe old age of 37.

Some people never grow old, that is to say - I have found out - they never learn. But no matter how old you are or pretend to be, if you belong to the non-learners, you will eventually run out of excuses for behaving like a brat (or prat, your choice). Hope is that non-learners forgive themselves at some point and stop thinking of themselves as failures. Rumour has it that, also eventually, you will stop to give a shit about what others may say or do or achieve or what they're better at.

I feel like a non-learner all the time. And I am still hoping for the point to come that I could give myself a break. Sometimes it works. In the Wallowing Hour. And I find myself letting go a little.
But as always, before you know it, the time's up and you put the gloves back on again and the visor goes down.

I heard someone say once, life hasn't got to be so hard.
Well, it's the way I know it.
What's hard is letting go of old habits.

Rock 'n Roll Luck

In 2011, Alex Turner, Esq. was reported to have complained at a party about the lack of pretty girls with whom to flirt. I only found out today. Gosh! HOW did I miss this?

Yup, finger on the pulse. That's me. 

But this nugget of information struck me as something quintessentially true for all the parties I went to, in company or alone - the only difference being, that in my case the handsome boys were conspicuous only by their absence. Shameless behaviour, I say. 

I am sure, Alex Turner for all his wit (and bonus material I am equally sure) should have no trouble in the flirt-department. (I mean, he used to bed Alexa Chung for crying out loud.) Alas, it seems Master Turner can only get his flirt on with a pretty girl. Sissy! We are not even talking smart, intelligent, funny. No we are concentrating purely on looks alone. Ah, the unfairness of it all!

Ha, I say. Come to my end of town and I show you what I have to put up with. 

The nasty boys, the stupid boys, the infantiles, the boys who’ll be boys, the chatty boys, the idiots, the wankers, the ones that can’t dance, the ones that won’t dance, the outright rude ones, the stalkers, talkers, the drinkers, the drunks, the bad kissers, the pests, the machos, the show-offs, the uglies, the fuglies, the loonies, the Roonies, … By Cooper, she’s starting to rhyme…

Anyway, you get the point. It’s like we’re continually out of “handsome”.  Oh, and you can forget about “smart”, “intelligent”, and “funny”, too.

It kind of makes you want to say, get a life, Alex! You’re a singer in a band, the songs you write are pretty good, too. They’re the kind that are either quietly to the point or so poetic that despite their obscurity the tug at one’s heartstrings is unmistakably felt and not easily forgotten. You’ve got that rock ‘n roll je ne sais quoi. So what exactly have you got to complain about, huh?

Oh right, no pretty girls at the party.

Well let me tell you something. Here in the world of The-Sad-End-of-Thirty, there’s no fucking pretty and there is no one flirting anymore either, alright.

At least, most of the time it seems that way. And you can “still feel younger than you thought you would by now” but what good is that in the face of time’s cruel jokes on women’s bodies. And no, my maturity did not get me over the fact that the older a woman gets the less she is seen, as in noticed and appreciated.

There’s none of that, mate.

There is, however, a time of day that’s called the Wallowing Hour. You know why? Because without it we would simply jump off a flippin’ bridge or something.

It’s in this short hour that all the frustration comes out, all pettiness, all the heartaches, the worries, the paranoia, all the insecurities and pain.

And then one gets on with it again as if nothing was ever wrong. That is after all what one does these days. Despite the fact there are no decent men in town, despite the fact that one is turning into one’s mother, and despite the fact that one feels damned inadequate and a bloody failure.

(Oh, haven’t you heard?! Yeah, teenage angst never really goes away.)

Really, get to my fuckin’ age and tell me again about “pretty”. But the sad fact is you’d probably still believe the world owes you pretty girls. And even sadder: you’d get them, too. 

I Have Lazy Bones. Sue Me!

At 10:44 this morning, I was still in bed. Needless to say flat-grooming has not happened.

It is now 15:54. 

I am weak. I am weak. I am weak. I am weak. I am weak. I am weak. I am weak.  

Need I continue?


Still, I have done one thing thoroughly today and that's travelling of the mind, i.e. reading.
So all is not wasted.

I have also watched clouds chase across the occasional blue spot of sky - which made a nice change to all the gray of recent weeks.

I have watched the builders make quite some progress on the site opposite my house.

I have watched the rain pound against my window.

All was done with dedication. And once more I understood that joy can be found in the little things.

Just because the Void is big does not mean we should forget that it is made up of those very details. There is time and place for each and every one of them to be discovered and enjoyed.

Simply decide upon the where and when.

WWBD?

Indeed, What Would Bradley Do?

I figure, first of all he'd be real grateful for something or other. (I know, this is getting old...)
Secondly, he'd NOT be sitting procrastinatin' - I mean look how far he's come in the world. Despite the fact that he's got a VERY thin-lipped mouth. A lady of my acquaintance once warned me of people with lines for mouths. They are mean and cruel. Her words, not mine. Clearly, she had it wrong somehow. Because it seems they are driven too. And perhaps there needs to be a certain amount of cruelty to get ahead in the world. Maybe it's a secret club. With secret signs and passwords to get you in the inner circle, with measuring tapes for the smallest ... Oh, whatev!

Faced with a problem, good ol Brad'd dig in. Or tell someone to. That comes with the territory and the celebrity pay cheque, I believe. Lucky Coop.
Maybe we should not ask WWBD but WWBAD? A is of course for? Correct, assistant(s).

So having said that it is clear that BC would tidy his flat if that were the most pressing issue of the day - or have someone do that for him. The thing to remember is, Void, he'd get straight to it. No mucking about there!
Since I am not of his monetary calibre, I and I alone will have to get to work. Which looks dire to me, dire, indeed. Oh, the unfairness of it all!

Enough I say. So tomorrow - as all good procrastinators will agree - tomorrow, will be the day I shall invest my time in a flat-overhaul in the cleaning and clearing sense.
Yup, go big or go home, right.
Though experience has shown that over-enthusiasm is the downfall of many a project.
Still, where would be without a little naiveté, hm?

I cannot be stopped, Void!
And I will be at least twice as good as Bradley's cleaning lady ever was! HA! Even if it kills me. And it may...


I shall stop here and save my precious energy for my big day tomorrow.
Watch this space.



P.S. Just so we're clear - I will not experience tomorrow's task as therapeutic or happiness-inducing! 
What am I, Mary freakin' Poppins?!

A Little Colour

goes a long way.

Poetry Pot

_______________________

Give me the Greens

give me the Grays

give me all the In-betweens

Give me the sweetness of

Ealing on Friday mornings

Show me the eyes of Hammersmith

when I rush past on iron tracks

Dilute Piccadilly’s thick blood

for just one day

and let Hungerford Bridge

moan once more when the

last train’s gone

You won’t mistake the Thames

for the Mississippi

and they can’t make you

believe London never sleeps

for she does - when you don’t watch

Close your eyes

you can hear her breathe.

Wander with me through

awakening Clerkenwell

Loose yourself in Chelsea’s mirrors

and meet your Guardian Angel

over a cup of coffee

in Shepherd Market.

Steal all the needles from Saville Row

Pop their balloons in

Covent Garden

and then

stop

Run away towards the sea

like this muddy band

Towards the sky

on dirty pigeon wings

Show me the freckles on the

pavement when the sun

breaks through

St. James’s trees

Give me one single

rain drop

I’d sprinkle

across this night time beauty

Give me South Ken’s pale

Venetian mask

and King’s Cross’s bright red lips

You never hear

nightingales singing

in Berkeley Square

but

you won’t mistake the Thames

for the Mississippi

and they can’t make you believe

that London never sleeps

for she does - when you don’t watch

close your eyes

you can hear her breathe

Wrong, Just Wrong

I somehow managed to wreck my layout.
Now I have tried to recreate it - but it doesn't feel quite right.
It's like I have moved again and the new abode still has a strange feel to it.

The Void may agree that what we hold dear to our hearts must ideally never change.

However, The Ever-Knowing Void will now lift the proverbial finger (if it had any. HA!) and point to the fact that -

Change is inevitable. Change in fact is the only thing constant in our lives.

Have I said that before? Perhaps. Goes to show my life is a fuckin' re-run.

Point: I will of course endeavour to overcome my childish aversion to the new and continue writing on this here page that is in its entirety dedicated to The Void.

Amen.


P.S. One good deed a day, right?

Please Continue

Ah, the new year.
Still so fresh and unspoiled.
Let's see how long that lasts.
I know, ever the optimist...


Is it not strange how we expect the worst... of events, of others, of ourselves?