covalent, making a habit of having a suicidal broad on the sofa, pass the tissues, would you like some tea, or do i just bring it out in people, maybe i should give it a go, get a nice chaise-longue, waking at four, only time i can be emotionally available, all i can do with claire is dissociate, the occasional welling up at most, wonder if it will be different in person, afraid of my feelings about that specifically, sarcastic asshole, have i become too cynical, mcmindfulness, yoga, colonialism, harold fucking pinter, melancholia, thinking the worst thoughts when someone is being vulnerable to me, thanks brain, fritillaria, what if the garden is not enough, only thing keeping me going, or at least keeping me in a job that is killing me, can i see, dirty boy, bolt upright on the sofa, is it really that uncomfortable or is that just what you do, so close to fucking everything up it seems, or is the fact that i don’t the thing that separates me from him, is the bar just so fucking low, what is that noise, can you hear things that other people can’t hear, how often in the last two weeks have you felt disappointed in yourself, self-appointment, turn off the humidifier, oh fuck off, can’t get a sound out of this flute half the time, circular breathing, bob from the vagina monologues, that room deodoriser, claire, have you ever known anyone who committed suicide, yes, too many, and i guess there likely will be more, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed, there’s no shame in it, you arrogant prick, not book smart or street

. . . . in which i am going to a christmas dinner at a house with a bunch of old waspy ladies. for some reason woody allen is going along too, and i think to myself that he will do well with this crowd, however he keeps annoying everyone by insisting on playing the piano and sneakily inserting bits of hava nagila into the christmas carols . . . .

. . . . in which i am dating ashley. there is a feeling of mutual attraction but perhaps a little one-sided - i am completely besotted with her and it shows through my constant need to touch her face with mine, or my nose, my excitedly wanting to share things with her for the first time and my anxiety following quickly at having perhaps overshared something. one such was revealing how much i love to swear (something that came up at craft night when sharon outed me as a cunt lover to dylan) and my history of swearing, which without even getting to the point i immediately wanted to retract having felt both the excitement of vulnerability and the shame of having brought up something that was actually quite heavy on what was supposed to be a lighthearted or romantic occasion. my feelings are all over the place. ashley recoils a bit, misreading my gravity amd thinking that i was dancing around a breakup. we are in blue moon and it feels like a sunday morning (when they are in fact closed) with gentle light smeared through the dirty windows. the interior and layout is different though - perhaps reminiscent of williams radio. the door is ajar - ambiguously open - but no one else is here to serve. ashley is not working, but slips behind the counter i think because some customers have come in and they need help and she is a sweetheart. again i want to go up and chat to her but i realize that i must contain my enthusiasm because the other customers are to come first. two people eventually appear from the side/back to relieve her . . . .

. . . . in which i am walking around in a seaside town through twisting and turning roads reminiscent of shorncliffe road area . . . the horizon is crowded with houses and trees and telegraph poles, but i see up above what appears to be, not the red arrows but the blue angels, doing an aerobatics show . . . it seems at first that they are performing incredible feats but as things progress several planes appear to be spinning out, but they dip below my line of sight so it is unclear . . . i hasten toward the beachfront to see better and find a small secluded cove with large rocks and turbulent waves . . . i am somehow swept up in it but sharon comes to my rescue . . . i am impressed that they manage to bring me back toward the beach, but i am concerned about us both being in peril as the tide recedes and we are pushed harshly onto the jutting rocks . . . .

. . . . in which i am in a small college town. i stumble upon a co-op that seems to be a little bit of everything in tiny proportions. there is an old woman there and she mentions something about “kira” and i wonder to myself if it is the same person. are they friends? i wander off . . . now i am in a large theatre with big blue seats. there is a girl, is it cassie, or sophie? for the first time i realize now they are functionally the same person. i follow them into the theatre and she takes the front row. i do they same but i’m anxious about sitting next to her too deliberately. three dark haired girls. weird sisters . . . .

strap your cherry tomato to a jam roll, have a tiny caprese salad, as if for a mouse, bribe myself with nerds jest like in the good old delays, one reese’s peanut buttercup for a paragraph, i hate those pieces to meeses, churlish the thought, a hessian wood sourly have cherished, pectin the head with some cherry reds, hamstering and i’m a louse, tam hey ho tum uh oh, growing all along the railway, a pocket full of pale whey, shitting them out all the way from charing ex to plover diary, four coffees please, and don’t forget the pissholes, so fisty catered, agent and orange, a lemon’s cough and a squash of daughter please, anna brianna and cassie o’pear, fleck the lode oven, holy ghosted, the first to go, like cats fleas in a sin kinship, hips sinking a fleeting rat, ocher in the war kids, ring her and supposes, at issue, a tissue, tis sue? aye, tis you, tits you, pips out, press toes and witches, espied liker of ambling, ever so loft jokin’, we all drawl, frown, clowning on the inside, eye side anjou hurdy, gurdy tissues, sweet milly on fun hold, gung hoed, cracked and on c, dough, adhere, a fee mail dear, pay a crop of golden sungold, mount sin face, reseeding airline, cord-on the pay phones, a la hair pie mode, that was the heftiest bra i’ve ever seen in my tweeds, fake gnome pisstake, screaming kisser, coop’s awk, damn fine pukka coughy, t.b. or not t.b., i have been too much in the sungold, uncle sweet williams, put that in your pied pipe and choke it, good grief, rats

for the second time this year i think i seem to have been struck by a mystery illness, giving me the first sign that something was up on tuesday but never quite coming to a head, just feeling tired, malaisey, some vague feeling of gastronomic distress that never shifts, perhaps coming to a head today but who knows, and what even the fuck is it, do i need to start spraying down my groceries with alcohol like it’s 2020, sanitize my hands every 5 minutes like andy, i knowwww, first post in forever and i don’t know why, nothing in me again, too sick to write, too well to have anything to write about, or is it the creeping suspicion that i am not quite alone, not quite as private as i had thought, need a new secret place, one for emma and one for fucking nobody, feel like i’m in trouble all the time, or that everyone is mad at me, am i going to lose my job, am i dying, is the garden the only thing i care about, did i say as much to sharon, what the fuck is wrong with me, did i finally learn at age 42 where the diaphragm is, middlemarch is my favorite in the march trilogy, the feeling that i must come off the welly b again, every blanket is a weighted blanket when you have a cat, it’s just not doing the thing that it did before and getting all the worst side effects even at the lowest dose, maybe try microdosing again if i can stomach it, just long to sleep, or be in a coma, for the first time in about 20 years i have a therapist that i’m afraid of losing, tired dead eyes, no family, can’t depend on anyone anymore but i have a number of people that are dependent on me, hospital fantasy, drink more water, can i justify having another bath this week, did i catch this thing from emma, is it time to retire, bunny garden

why do i only want to write when my brain can’t even remember what words mean anymore . . . forcing myself to get this out now, it is hard to feel even on good days that i am not in some way at the end of my life . . . there’s nothing left now, just wrapping up . . . i don’t know why ben’s message left me feeling like shit but it did and that got him blocked and deleted. there’s been a lot of that recently. should i be concerned? ever smaller circles. at least there are still a few good ones willing to stick around but i do not know where any of this is going. just feels like oblivion. probably doesn’t help that i recently took a voyage into the abyss, which is to say starve my brain of cobalamin, which in retrospect probably explains all the posts about feeling nothing, blank, words not making sense anymore. and i guess i’m feeling better now, but i don’t think i survived fully intact. got a taste for it and i want to go violently into that good night. and though i’m feeling better, i haven’t woken up to a brighter future, or any future at all. it’s just a huge blank. i’ve lost so much in the last five years, they stripped back so many layers and now it’s plain that there’s nothing there. the only thing that makes me want to keep going is the garden. good job it’s a big project i guess. or that they say you’re never finished. i just wish there was someone i could have materially depended on all this time but it’s just been me. other people depend on me and i’ve nothing left to give now. no one is going to carry me. they took my team away from me, the one that i’ve spent the last five years trying to shape, trying to make it a safe environment for the amazing women i work with to thrive, the only women-majority team i’ve ever worked on, and they just took me off it while i was on leave without even telling me. i’m so done.

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