Wednesday 4th October

Wednesday 4th October

The tall tale end of obsession is rarely pretty. Squalor is the word that comes to mind. If squalor can be a feeling. It's more of a taste in the mouth. A bad taste. The taste of self abuse. And I don't mean the kind that's any fun.

Not a good day. Sometimes the shrinking expansion of the world can come crashing in on top of a person. While I'm home for parcels to be delivered first time, with no trips to the main post office required, the fleecy waterproofs didn't fit and weren't fleecy. This upset me way more than it should have. I'm not sure why. I suspect change is okay only if I appear to have full control of it. And the snug comfort of fleecy trews make Winter walks in Aberdeenshire bearable. They are a necessity. If they don't make the fleecy waterproofs anymore, I'm lost, I can't go out to the country, I can't go out in the snow, I can't go on.
And several dozen other spiralling thoughts to that effect.
The great I can't.

So I made blue heart jam and thought I'd do some broccoli quiche just coz the oven was on. But I made them in a state of agitated despair, over-heated the empty jars and one shattered with the spitting cackle of splitting glass, scaring the bejesus out of me.
The Universe says, wake up.
Pay a-fucking-ttention.

The jam has hardly set, but it's very French so it's fine, and the quiche bubbled over and burnt the tray. Shouldn't have made the heart-shaped ones after that email.
The trigger for the despair, that 'He' thinks of me every day on his way to work, cycling past a "scrapheap where a blue machine "chews junk and emits noxious fumes".

Am having second thoughts about the broccoli quiche.

I truly don't think that men mean to be insensitive fuckwits. It's just that sometimes, they can be. Excellent at it.
He was comparing holding his breath passing said fumes to my underwater offshore survival experience and how brave I was.
But that is not what I read.
Besides which, as per Cyrano, I've been a lot braver since.

Are we women programmed to take umbrage? To misunderstand what a man thinks is a gentle thought - 'you are in my mind when I'm not even with you' - and change it into 'you chew junk and emit noxious fumes you old scrapheap'.

I wonder if Nick Cave's wife has trouble with his murdersome lyrics? Or does that just make him even more dark and exciting to be with? But how to keep up with that on a day to day basis? What do you make for breakfast for such a dark soul? Weetabix week doesn't seem to cut it. Unless you cut them into Hallowe'en shapes perhaps. Bats for instance. Dye the milk blood red. Carve murdered lovers from the husk bricks.
Toast - carcinogenic black.
Perhaps he's a porridge man. Or worse, Frosties. How disappointing would that be. There are things we should never know.

To top it all the baby seal died on Autumnwatch. Rejected by it's mother. Nature in the raw. I can't cope with any more rejection drama. Will Brutus kill Percy, will all the stags get laid? I just want red squirrels without fleas and to feed the birds without getting my washing shit on. Is it too much to ask.

Plus never compared to a scrapheap again. Not that he did. But that's not what I read.

Am still reeling from the diary documentaries, which reminded me why I don't watch much telly. I don't know if I feel more sorry for men or women now. Is this really all there is? Russian women who want a man for the time it takes to blague a mobile phone and men who want a "wife not a whore but can't seem to suss that it might be better to behave like a husband not a pimp in order to create that.
Which was sad enough, but the mistress one and that devil peddling contempt and resentment between the sexes was just the most depressing thing I've seen in a long time.
Including the baby seal.
Are we really so far removed from each other?
It's not looking good. Which is disappointing as I've decided I'd quite like to be married. It's Helen Mirren's fault.
I want to set my alarm to make love to my husband too.
Conjugal rights. Wake up and conjugate me why don't you?
Married life must be fabulous.
With the right person.

Marriage - I looked it up. It's a card game - a game of chance.

I have joined an Iyengar yoga class. Yoga for people who like to suffer. It's one of the best things to do when harbouring murderous feelings, towards certain cyclists failing to notice your body is, in fact, a temple and not a scrapheap. For instance.
The temper flows out of you from the tips of your fingers to the soles of your feet - in the agony of just holding your body in warrior one, two or three.
I know this pose of old.
It's a battle, but eventually it's about readiness. Courage and readiness. Stamina. Hold the pose, feed it with your breath (or spite but that's only okay if you're a beginner), pushing all negative thought and feeling out of the soles of your feet.
Coz the earth can take it.
And recycle it.
Into crystals.