This disease and other things

I miss going to the pool.

I managed the entire winter not missing it at all, not even thinking of the lack, but last two weeks I’ve felt very out of my balance point. There’s a lot of anxiety and even suicidial ideation. At the same time, it feels foreign. It is not me that thinks or feels it, but it is an imbalance, a disease outside of my identity. This makes it a little easier to handle. You can dismiss it because it has little personal source. You can think of it as a very bad viral infection that will go away by next week.

Meanwhile. I got very excited about filming a little video story. It started as I saw a scene in a music video that made me go “that’s so me!”. Then I thought I’ll restage it for a laugh. Then I thought: why just that part, I’ll do it longer. Followed by: I’ll do it as best as I possibly can and do a whole story, with costumes and everything. I don’t know how to film and edit, of course, but it’ll be fun.

It was enlightening to realise some things in relation to it. In spite of my excitement, I kept trying to veto this plan. It’s going to take a lot of resource, in time, some in money, but mostly time. I have better things to put my energy into. I have to write to get better at it. I have to read to get better at writing. I can’t be dillydallying. This is silly.

Then again. Every moment of it, from planning my outfits to camera angles, I’d be in a state of happy flow. I love doing useless things that mean nothing. That don’t lead to anything. That don’t have to be anything but what they are. Also, cosplayers spend a lot of hours on their outfits too. Why can’t I?

I have taken the lightness out of writing for myself. I see it as my only way out. The only thing that could save me that I have any control over. It has become a thing I should do. One of those adult things, responsible things. While dressing up as a footballer or Veronika Lake is childish, silly and irresponsible but really great fun. I figured I’d choose fun and try to learn from it, as it so accidentally landed on my lap.

Writing this, the very bad brain virus is doing its work. I tried to write to escape it a little, without having much to write about. It worried me a little at one point too. If a hormonal imbalance can cause me to have suicidial thoughts while not having been particularly depressed before, suppose it got worse, suppose I was badly depressed beforehand? It’s very annoying, this skinless state where every unsmooth corner hurts and only very soft things are safe. Underneath it I feel my old happy mood though. That’s what makes it feel like a disease. I know it’s a surface thing I just need to go through, not something that had roots or meaning.



Me: watches Little Britain to excess and writes silly verses inspired by it.

Also me: is put out by swearing in Good Will Hunting and the TV version of Agatha Christie’s Witness for the Prosecution.

I really can’t stand gratuitous swearing and Good Will Hunting is disturbingly full of it. In Little Britain, it’s organic and belongs where it is and often has a boyish innoncence to it, but quite a few works make me feel like the swearing is just there as a dare, a conjunction, to show that the author can. It’s distracting.

I did not like Good Will Hunting for a number of other reasons besides the swearing. The boys weren’t believeable. They didn’t look like troubled youth, but like the good guys being slightly naughty but then going back to their books and eventually becoming businessmen and lawyers. I didn’t believe the genius character either. Nerds who have read so many books don’t look/act like this. I’m probably stereotyping and can see that under some rare circumstances they could look like the guy that dates the cheerleader, but if that rare case was true, it has to be at least suggested by the story. The plot was also so predictable that there was no tension for me and I couldn’t finish it. Just not my film at all and I wanted to like it.

I did like the caramels line. It’s something I could see myself using. Asking people out for a coffee or drink is tiresome when you could ask them out for ice cream or cat spotting.

Was it a vision or a waking dream?

I have a couple of childhood memories that seem so peculiar I can’t but doubt their veracity.

First one is this: I’m out with my baby sister and parents. They have to pop into a store in one quiet side-street. The five-year-old me is told to behave, not leave the store front, not talk to strangers and mind the baby. I proceed to do so until a strange woman approaches. She is very old, has a long nose and wears a black coat reminiscent of a cape with a hood. She looks into the pram and asks me something or tells me something about babies. I’m absolutely horrified. She radiates evil and mental instability. And I’m to be in charge. I’m so terrified I can only pray “Please go away, please go away. Please leave us”. She eventually goes away and all is good again.

But her likeness to a witch, the black cloak, the crooked long nose, the manner of her peeking into the pram – could women like that really exist in the 1990s? Or has my memory heavily embellished it?

Another peculiar memory comes from my teens.  We lived in a city flat near a busy road and opposite our house was a small park. One day I saw a brown horse in the park. There’s a little yellow house nearby where the horse was kept in a stable and sometimes the owner took it out for a ride in the park. In the middle of a city. Across a heavy-traffic road! Who keeps horses in the city! On a property no larger than 1800 square metres. And goes to ride in the park……..

Another memory with horses: I’m walking on a forest path which connects one part of the city with another. Two people on horseback come and ride past me. Once again – in the city! It’s rare enough for someone to keep goats, though that has been done, but horses? On small town properties?!