Seasons never change on the South coast

I should be doing something else. Something productive perhaps. Something constructive. Something that would bring some cash in. Send out application. Prepare the workshop plan. Continue with the endless research on the nature of the universe. Attend the course on how to learn yet another useless skill. I might just as well sit here, in the discomfort of my own house, which isn’t my own either, but rented and paid for by the state.Image

You should write! My authoritarian granddad has urged me for years, so I have stopped. And there were all the books I needed to read before I could even consider writing anything, a simple sentence. What used to be so natural, and words just flowed, has dried up. I have stopped using my language as well, a reminder of frustration and unhappiness. Still, a  mode of expression, with all its embellishments, cosy names and endless diminutives of every possible thing on earth. Everything becomes teeny-weeny, cutesy or vulgar and repulsive in a way unimaginable in English. Like the weather in our country; we are used to the extremes. Here, on the south coast of England, even the seasons are just a joke, a mere pastiche of continental seasons: `lauwarm`, as the German have it. 

I like it like this. It suits me, even though I keep recollecting extremes: extremes of weather and of moods. It is a green a pleasant land.  In a bit, I should go out for a walk, enjoy this lauwarm season.  

Saturday night, The Great Pretendress

After more than half a year of being on the dole (half  a year? Feels like a lifetime) it is difficult not to feel like an outcast, a pariah, a second class citizen, unfit to fit anywhere. I can pretend though. On a Saturday night: I want to go out, like everyone else. Get drunk, and who knows, maybe get lucky if I stay up all night.

I have joined few socializing groups, and I even fear less than I used the  moment when I will have to introduce myself. Almost every time, I can come up with a new idea of who I am , or rather who I wish to be: as, I bet, everyone else does, and only those who cannot pretend get labeled awfully sounding SA; socially awkward; another kind of pariah. One of them stands right in the middle of the group when I enter the pub; there’s few of them in the group. It is so obvious, it is almost painful for me to watch him. He looks so detached from his surroundings, does not speak to anyone, holding on to his pint like to a safety net, yet not drinking. One of the girls who’s been in the group for some time whispers into my ear: he is so weird, surely it is not so difficult to say hello, how are you? She is plastered, I’ve only just met her, so I can’t explain that it can actually be incredibly difficult to approach people if you are shy, or SA as she calls it. I’ve been one of them too, even if people would not label me like this most of the time. If I’m relatively sober I can pretend. If I get high though, even just on weed, I descend into my own personal abyss with glass walls, paranoid of people around me, who might have an amazing psychic abilities of reading mu thoughts, recognizing my innermost feelings and writing me instantly off, seeing what a pathetic worthless loser I am. But then I recover slowly, and as the sobriety kicks in, I start feeling slightly better about myself. On a day like this, I even accept the life I have. So I feel for those SAs, especially if they seem to be permanently stuck in their glass bubble, not just under influence of drugs. 

Moanday till Shatterday

My head is about to burst. Hours spent in front of a screen at college and now the same again. Perhaps I should get back to writing on my type machine and hide all in the safety of my drawers. W. and A., as lovely as they are, were driving me crazy today, I was late and I haven’t smoked for the last few days, butI feel like I need it. And sadly, I need money, as usual. I decided on a whim to go to London, have booked the tickets and now I have no money  at all. Rent needs to be paid next Friday, I need to pay gas and electiricity bill asap (A. has already paid it for me), plumber is coming round and will probably take from us as much money as possible, as everything is falling apart in this house. Oh, well. Usual crap, usual moaning. Moanday till Shatterday.

I made some peanuts on my drawings. I should have been cleverer in my olden days, sucked up to people with right connections….but that’s not me. I have to find another solution. Probably finding a job, at last. Stop worry about paying the bills. And once I will get back on track, I’ll move out from here, somewhere even nearer to the seaside. With whom will it be, I have no idea. With a man, a woman, a whole commune? Who knows. At last, I don’t feel entirely hopeless. Might be just the medication that I am taking – still good. Soon, soon, my title here will be irrelevant. At last, I can IMAGINE myself in a different position. Living a different life. A scientist I was dating a while ago, told me with a pinch of envy; You know, science is limited, but imagination is limitless. But it isn’t true. But now, I need to get back to normal life. Very, very soon.

Drifting in all directions

Consistency isn’t my greatest strength, as anyone reading my blog would have noticed by now. My target of 500 words proved to be unrealistic, in spite of lack of other things to do. In the last two weeks I have been busy (till 3 pm every day, and also had to get up early to be there on time): my daily writing quota completely evaporated from my mind. I thought of all those other amazing ideas that I have, and if they might came to fruition one day, but as usually I keep hopping from one idea to another. Is my dream of being a writer just a dream, distant and unrealistic? Is all I need a little bit more discipline? A much more discipline? A cane? It is sunny again today. I will be out in a bit. Or should I stay here and get on with history of philosophy, history of Western political thought and anthropology?  At the same time, I could be sitting on the seafront, contemplating the Infinite, the Beyond, abstract ‘apeiron’…or just giving my mind a litle bit of a rest after a week which has been much more busy than usual. And a bit stressful too, with M. blaming me for all his troubles. Now I know for sure, I am not going to see him anymore. I stayed over at his new flat, which has a distinct feel of a bachelor pad, and as usual he was in a vile mood in the morning, blaming me and just being plain nasty. Enough is enough. I left early, and went to the seashore. The day was busy so I had no time to ruminate about all the things he has said. It’s good it’s over, finally. And J. Is back now. I am a little bit ashamed to admit, but I do like the look of him…actually since the moment I have first seen him, I felt his magnetism. And his voice sounds like purring, with r`s rolled, the wind of the Highlands…I need to get out. Into the sun, into the neverending blue, no matter how many words I have already…356. Not too bad. After all, I can give myself a break when I want. And change my targets to something a little bit more realistic. 

STONE IN THE WATER

I went to the beach yesterday. It was windy, dark and I was in a brooding mood. The sun has just set down, and I was a little bit uneasy, seeing the ‘gay mile’ nearby. But I needed to stand by the sea, inhale its healing elements and lesten to its soothing, repetitive sound. A stone attrackted my attention. It looked a little bit like a head with ugly yet fascinating face on it. I became attached instantly and wanted to take it home. And other stones too. But no, I said to myself, I can’t take all of them home, not even that one I was holding in my palm. I thought of M. and imagined he was that stone – and after few minutes of happiness of possessing something (somebody) it was time – time to go and time to end that attachemend which has been weighing me down too much, heavy like a stone, cumbersome, burdensome…I had to chuck the stone in the sea. There it lies at the bottom, with other stones, impossible to find. I keep thinking of M. as of that stone in the sea. It helps a little bit. He’s been such a cad, especially in the last week! I know he is in trouble now, and I feel bad for him. In fact, I pity him. Last night, he texted me really late in the night, certainly very, very drunk. Sizzled, pickled, plastered or mashed as they say here. I don’t even understand his text, I’m not even sure if he wanted to text me, maybe someone else? It is easier for me to ignore him as I keep thinking of him as of that stone in the water. In some ways, I still have some warm feeling for him and would like to talk to him, in some time, maybe, but I can’t put up with his current behaviour. I don’t feel like I can trust him or rely on him either. Pity.

It is Saturday night, but there’s nowhere to go for me. I’ll stay here for now, listening to the soundrack from ‘Hable Con Ella’, as I can’t afford to go out anywhere. I am petrified by the prospect of the electric and gas bill coming soon…I might have to sell one of the pieces of jewellery I still have. With a heavy heart. What should rather go – grandma’s ring or the necklace from Dad? Or the unmatching earings? As long as it is gold, pawnbrokers will take it. I have to stop that plot resembling a storyof an impoverished protagonist in a 19th century novel.  Time for action. Whatever sort. A cunning plan. Get-rich-quick scheme. As my (other)worldly flatmate wisely recommended pole dancing and prostitution are always in demand. On the other hand, after few days of my business admin course, I would rules this option out ( the competition is driving the prices down too much). I might need another five hundred words to think of all other options, so I will think of it tomorrow, as Scarlet used to say….

Get-round-to-it

Dolescrounger is being sent on a course by the Job Centre. If she is not overjoyed, it must be the low dosis of Prozac she is taking. At the end, at some distant point in the future, she might even make some money and repay her debts. She might even become truly independent. She might even get all those things done that she could not get round to.

Or she might just get one of these:  Image

Get round to it

: a magical button that can be pressed or clicked if you prefer at any time, any place. Guarantees getting round to all of those tasks and projects covering dust at the back of the overcrowded cupboard of your mind. Not to be overused. Might cause feeling of nausea if used irresponsibly. Not to be sold, re-sold or exchanged under any circumstances. If broken, please use your own common sense in mending it.

 All I need is to find a right place for it. And use it accordingly. But now, I can relax a little bit. But as I stopped freting so much about my own situation, I have noticed how much I neglected my friends. The first thing that spring to my mind, is to blame M. for all of this, but it is absurd or at least unfair. And I should finally make up my mind if I want to keep seeing him or not. And not forget about other people around me. Hopefully, it isn’t too late. Sometimes, I can’t bring myself to answering emails/texts etc but when the opposite happens, I am devastated. And now, that a few of my efforts were left unnoticed (?) I feel slightly anxious, to say the least. Are they offended? Were do we stand? If I could only go for a few days to London, see few old friends; see if they still ARE my friends – but I can’t afford it.

I don’t have many friends here in town and it starts weighing down on me. It’s not easy to make new friends when you have to answer: I’m unemployed or make something up (I’m not a very good liar) when that inevitable question pops up: So, what do you do for a living? There’s that shameful but true answer: I sign on. I’m on a dole. I do nothing. Nothing. I survive. I skrimp and scrounge.I waste my life. I wither and dry up. I subside. I watch same old movies for the n-th time. I start losing the sense of time.

Now, at least being on a student of a sort,I might have more courage to go out there, meet new people, be sociable and normal. Even if only for very little time.