WELL IT’S BEEN A WHILE, blog home dawgs.
Right now I’m listening to Stars, and they’re pretty lovely, and just yesterday I told my friend that I hadn’t heard them yet. Actually I’ve just realised I’ve listened to this album before, but I completely forgot.
I also made a tit of myself today because in total Marty style, I banshee-d some woman over the phone, because I was CONVINCED that our alarm system had been connected a year ago to the security company’s monitoring system. Turns out no one’s been paying for that account, so it is not connected. Somewhere in the back of my head I remember a conversation about how I was supposed to pay it, not the landlord, but I can’t remember what was decided. You know those movies with the raging Alzheimer’s granny?
That was totally me doing a cameo.
My anxiety is pretty whack, and in the past few months, I haven’t been worried/anxious about much, but I’ve definitely been feeling all the wonderful, trippy psychosomatic effects of a nervous system in tatters. Enough said, I don’t even want to talk about it.
Which is perhaps why I haven’t been blogging.
But that’s not it. That is not what I meant, at all. (Throughout all this change, trust T.S Eliot to be with me still…)
For the first time since like, ever, my extrovert exhibitionist self has chosen to draw the curtains slightly.
It’s not that things are bad, because for the most part, they’re amazing. But we all know I can’t write for shit when I’m happy. All poetic persuasions disappear, because although I can show you my hurt in a million different words, to show you how he’s different and how he makes me smile just is not describable. I lack the words. My diary sits empty too. And I fear Word will underline my phrases for Repetition errors, so I avoid triteness by saying nothing at all. Believe me, I am feeling worlds of emotions, but to describe them in words seems somehow too shallow, too bad an attempt, too meaningless and yet so meaningful that if I told it in the wrong way I would kick myself.
And probably, I am afraid to trust this big net, which can catch my words, and spit them back at me, and which sits there patiently, until someone comes along to snatch my words, and twist them, and hold them to my neck, until I breathe nothing but them, and I regret ever saying anything. Trust is a big word these days. It gets stuck in my throat like a big crumbly piece of cake that I chomped too fast and now tickles and scratches at the back there, while I gag and make disturbing attempts at swearing in French. (This may have happened. Putain sacre gag bleu.)
What else can I say to justify this unlikely absence? There are less gay actors in my life; things are more quiet. The Education Department has filled me with stories that I doubt I can relate, without compromising someone or something’s professional integrity. Stories of illegal behaviour, of minors in danger, of minds wasted, of bad teachers, of lost parents, of crazy governments, of small glimmers of hope in a vast and desperate province sitting at the bottom of the country which is at the bottom of the world which makes lists and stats which say we are fucked.
Every time I want to write about any of these things, something stops me. The reasons are thick and hard to unravel. But I will be back. My mouth is too big to ever be fully plugged, no matter how big the crumbly cake.
I’m off to make my motions count, even if I can’t write about them right now.