Grace Notes @ Snarkattack

The squalor of books, papers, folders and empty packing material has slowly begun to infect my working space (the sunroom). At first, it was contained - in my room, but over the week as I’ve lost energy, it’s just grown outside.

I woke up this morning and the whole stupid poem thing didn’t instantly upset me. That’s a good sign. A few hours later, that was no longer the case. There were a few layout edits that needed to be done to my poem before it’s carved in stone and those have been fixed. I was kind of hoping for some sort of apology, but it feels like I’m the one who needs to apologise. I definitely need to apologise my friend who called last night and copped a fair bit of my (self-directed) anger which was incredibly stupid given that she was exhausted and still found the time to see how things were with me.

She invited me to spend a few days with her where she’s housesitting and I’m looking forward to that. It’ll be nice to have a space where I can be myself. A lot lately, it seems like I have to pretend to be this statue and remain as quiet and non-obtrusive as possible - like when our family go out for meals. No one talks to me and so I just sit there quietly eating my food, secretly waiting for the evening to be over. I do try to start conversation but that generally doesn’t go down very well because I bore them. That was what Wednesday evening was like, anyway. But at least I got to eat some divine handmade gnocchi.

Today, I’m planning to clean my room before going to stay over elsewhere. It’s always nice to come back from somewhere to a clean room, like a fresh start. I know why it’s a mess - I’m just having trouble handling lots of things in my head. But like one’s thoughts, where to begin cleaning the mess? Is there any point, given that the mess will return? One can only ignore it for so long, alas. Or perhaps mess is natural, and lack of is not.

So…some welcome and wonderful news! Well it was until of course I managed to stuff things up - but I didn’t mean to.

A poem of mine was accepted for publication online, which is probably the best thing ever to have happened this year.

It also happened to be a love poem. It looked pretty juvenile to only include the initial to whom it was intended, so I edited it before my mad burst of submissions, thinking it looked more serious if I were willing to put a name to it. I’m not ashamed to be associated with the individual, but it is embarrassing too, but isn’t art all about exposing oneself every now and then?

It turns out the person to whom it is dedicated didn’t appreciate having his name attached to it, despite me having mentioned it. I should have been more business-like about it but I wasn’t and when I’d sent an e-mail to proudly brag about the poem (which will be appearing in print too!), the reply I got was a real punch in the gut. I thought of buying some girlie stuff to cheer me up, but the thought left me…numb. Call a doctor, quick!

I know it’s probably my fault, and it’s utterly ridiculous to let that one thing spoil what is probably my greatest achievement to date (gosh, that is so depressing) but I really couldn’t help it. It’s so lame to be so upset! Too bad I can’t share the link with everyone; just waiting for the name to be deleted and then I’ll be pimping myself out more hardcore than Fat Cow Poet. In my grief, I cancelled social plans I had with dedicatee (is that even a word?) and he’s pretty much the only person that actually enjoys spending time with me.

I’ll try to bury myself in work. I do have a buttload of reviews needing to be written but the day before yesterday, writer’s block set in. Finding it hard to concentrate this week. And to think some fellow Blogcritics want me to write some articles for their site! Good luck, loser. Guess I better get back to reading this book of reggae poetry and playing Glow Worm (this awesome game I have to review).

(despite the category, I’m not actually taking the piss out of myself for a change)

Last year around Christmas time, I found out what was responsible for the last seven years of largely chronic depression. No, hang on, that’s not right - I always knew what had caused it but this was the time at which I realised that if I didn’t start trying to deal rather than repress, my illness would end up taking my life. I would die by my own hand, yes, but it would be my illness’ fault not mine!

That would be the weaker thing to do, so I set out to do what it is that strong people do - seek help. My psychologist and one of the few female friends I had who I actually trusted had suggested seeking help through a publicly funded organisation. Things were bleak. Self-neglect was…embarrassing (thank goodness for that unwritten contract that exists in families that says as long as you’re not axe murdering, pretend everything’s fine). Hurting myself felt good and I knew deep down that that was very bad. I couldn’t read or watch anything too…cerebral because it was nightmare city. Not to mention that it took a very disturbing film to make me sit up and realise that my life might just give Peyton Place a run for its money.

Anyway…as with all public services, the waiting list was long. I was told that I’d be attended to in 3-4 months time. Groan. If I was still alive by then (thanks to my shrink pulling his fat finger out of his arse, I’m still here albeit narcoleptic and feeling awfully fat).

It took them six months to get back to me. My first few appointments were awful. I was too unwell to do that shit properly. So hiatus came about on both sides.

Today should have been the end of said hiatus. The dreaded call came.

Of late, things have been fantabulous and I wasn’t going to let anything stuff that up. Therapy while being necessary, is ridiculously painful. It’s like alcohol for the emotions except that you don’t have to overdo it to have an emotional hangover.

I had to say no, to turn down help and get back on the waiting list. Rejoice, I’m officially a dependent of the state!

Hope it was the right thing to do: I couldn’t handle losing almost everything - not right now. November’s coming up, it’ll probably happen then, just like it has for the last few years. It might not but statistics is a persuasive bitch.

It just occurred to me that the (former) category ‘quotidien’ is really just a non-depressed version of the (former) ‘mental piss-take’ category. That’s really good, right?

It’s too bad an online pal of mine is having the opposite experience (hi Ash…), but one thing we do still have in common: where are my real-life pals? I know they’re around, and it’s great not to feel sad about me not getting to spend time with them, or talk to them etc. but my personal e-mail account is really quiet of late. It’s weird.

It’s nice to be able to look at it from a more objective perspective: when unwell, it feels like they’ve ‘engineered’ it so that they can’t see you. Some people actually do (and I mentioned this last post) but most don’t.

Is it work? A whole bunch of work people have e-mailed me to ask if I’m going to end up reviewing their audio release or book etc. and I assume that anything I receive gratis is to be reviewed unless I cark it. I’m a bit worried as one place wants me to get a review out in a very short space of time (having only just received the titles last week) when I have about five or so others going and the material came with time to actually read the titles from cover to cover. Perhaps the PR department are looking for cursory reviews rather than my wafflesque ones. I can do that - I won’t like it but it’s not about me, is it? It’s not like it’s a review for the New Yorker, or something.

Finally, I got around to changing my blog theme. Yea! I did two thirds of what needed to be done (the easy stuff, haha) and my admin sorted out the cohones. I love it, it’s so clean and minimalist - the focus is on the content, not flashy MySpacesque graphics, ugh. Groan, now if only I could fix a whole bunch of other tech-related things. My miniblog feed has gone wonky - again! Damn you, wonky MB feed.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve never had lots of close friends. It probably had a lot to do with not fitting in very well when I first arrived here - even my teacher in fourth grade picked on me (she was a witch).

So I consider my position at present a fairly fortunate one. I have one friend who I can fully trust (probably due to the fact that his memory is pretty appalling more than anything else!) and two or three other friends who I can tell almost everything to but not without effort. I’m not exactly in a position to pick and choose persons willy-nilly.

At the moment, I have a slight problem. Someone who I was fairly good friends with recently decided to get in touch with me and even though I know I should be grateful, I’m not. In fact, I’m actually pretty resentful. Nasty, eh? I did discuss this with a close female friend of mine, who was nice enough to tell me I wasn’t a complete cow. So why am I not convinced?

If you look back on my main blog, it’s pretty obvious: at the beginning of the year, things were…bad. Yes, things had been bad before, and crying all the time is pretty tame when it comes to depression. Of course it’s horrible - can you imagine waking up everyday feeling like you’ve lost the most important person in your life? That’s how awful the sadness is, except you haven’t lost anyone.

This time wasn’t like that. I was destructive, to the point where I had to be ‘watched’ overnight a few times. If there was ever a time when I needed people, it was then, and they were there. Except one friend, who for months would make plans with me, then cancel, then reschedule, and because I didn’t work apparently I was supposed to put up with this. I still feel like I’m overreacting, but it hurt. Especially when this person decided that because their life had suddenly took a turn for the worse (recently) they had a lot more time to try and ‘chase’ me.

The old me would be totally “Yeah, okay, let’s catch up!” but the current me (which is as close as I’ve got to my true self in the past seven years) is…wary? Is that wrong of me? I feel like I owe this person the truth but how on earth are you supposed to tell someone that they’ve stuffed up, and that there isn’t really any need to ‘fix’ it as such? That the time to ‘fix’ it has passed?

This is probably not painting me in the best light, but this person has often (not sure if it’s intentional) made me pretty uncomfortable in social situations, hence my reluctance to have this person back in my life. I suspect it’s partially intentional…perhaps I should just do what will make me stay happy. If I were to do what I think is the right thing to do, the only person who’ll be miserable is me, and I’m so sick of that! I need healthier role models - or a big sister dammit.

In the meantime, if anyone has any advice I’d be willing to hear it.

It is a rare day where my cat actually pisses me off, but seeing as I only got 3-4 hours sleep, I’m not at all appreciative of him sticking a claw into my hand, little twerp, while I’m trying to snatch some naptime. I got some of my dates mixed up and turned out that I didn’t have as much time to get some work in as I thought so drastic measures were necessary.

Of course there were distractions, such as this puzzle game I’m supposed to review. Rocky Road ice cream Drumsticks - I hate the actual chocolate stuff, but this stuff is nice!

Oh, then there was finding out that I’m getting a poem published. Bit embarrassing really, it was one of my really soppy ones, but fantastic nevertheless. I don’t get paid, but who knows, perhaps that’ll be next… Still have to speak to NMD and another close friend of mine, but did get to speak to one to go all gleeful at. God, I’m so tired. This is like uni before the mid-semester break.

So, to my dear local pals, if I’ve been neglecting you of late, my sincerest apologies. I can think of four people in this group. Yikes. Okay, time for me to get a cup of tea now. It’s well-deserved.

Are they piping something into the water or air at the moment? Everyone seems to be in funny farm at my house, even my father who is usually the only stable one in the family. It’s like living amongst strangers.

I picked up my new bank card before it got sent back to its main office and paid for my parking ticket, which my stupid shrink should have to pay…grrr. Seeing as there was a pharmacy nearby, I decided to get my script as I was low on the happy pills. So in I go, it’s not exactly rocket science filling a script, is it? Apparently, much to my horror, they had run out and I was one box short. How the hell can they run out of antidepressants? It’s a really common one too. That’s like a fast food restaurant saying they ran out of burgers, it just doesn’t happen.

It was inconvenient given that my bank is 20-30 minutes drive from my house. I begrudgingly consented to come back the next day to get my remaining box. Which of course meant the day after (today). Yesterday I had one of those awful days where if things bother me, I just…fall asleep. Similar to when those British hypnotists tap their hypnotee (?) on the shoulder and say “sleep”. It was weird - my body was acting like it was in shock after I had a shower, so I lay down and just fell asleep. I even went to bed at 11pm (which is abnormally early for me!) because I was so…out of it. In fact, I probably would have retired earlier if it weren’t for this awesome documentary on TV called Britain A.D. by Francis Pryor (he also did Britain B.C. which was just amazing!). They’re debating whether or not King Arthur existed (groan…not again!).

Whoops, the window disappeared. What happened there. Anyway, the title of this post. I saw a programme on Drew Barrymore. She was a drug abuser at 13 and later on became a spokesperson for the “Just Say No” programme aimed at kids. I also made it the title because I’m fed up of being bullied by my parents, and feel like them ‘no’, as in no more abuse. Only I’m allowed to crazy on their arses dammit, not them on me. I’m never going to have children, and should I live to experience menopause, for the good of society I might just have to be locked up. Some menopausal women are sociopathic I tell you.

Okay, so I tried to practise today. My father very kindly cleared a space for me in the spare room and I’m trying to get back into it.

Ooh god, I am awful! Perhaps that lady was right…but hopefully, it seems to be mainly a case of my fingers aren’t strong enough. So there I am, plucking away after considerable time spent tuning (this is most common with viol players! Tuning takes forever), making not at all concordant sounds, and the dear kitty is standing at the crack of the open door. So I stop, see if he wants foodies. Not foodies. Go outside? Nope, not that either.

He wants to snuggle with me! So there goes my half hour or so of building up muscle to start properly playing, and I make the dear muse purr like mad on our beloved tiger blankies. Just like a baby, eventually he is lulled to sleep.

Here’s some pictures, been meaning to post one or two for ages, and an e-mail from my BC colleague Cat (hello!) finally made me get up and do it.

I did try to take one of the instrument being held between my legs - to show you that it’s a physical necessity, as there’s no pin like the cello, but that didn’t quite work. Can’t wait to be back in the ‘zone’ again, however long that will take! Might have to start writing my reviews at the local library so I can’t get distracted by the wonderfully constantly available…internet.

Darn! So many things to do! At least I’ve almost finished the Shakespeare book for reviewing; this instrument would have been played a lot during that time (he’s often referring to minstrels and consorts and the like…because he knows musicians are horny beasts, chortle).

I got my first bathtime freebies for reviewing last week after making a pit-stop to my house and grabbing the requisite postage slip and juggling various things at the post office. It was a package from Lush! Some nice treats for review purposes: Black Pearl & Romance In A Stone bath ballistics and Temple of Truth & Marathon bubble bars. Mmm…!

So me and NMD thought this was pretty bloody cool. He’s looking through the Lush catalogue that came with the products and spots a product that might be of use to him. The dialogue that ensued was roughly as follows:

NMD: Hm, I could use that.
me: What? (concentrating, driving)
NMD: Scalp massage stuff. Hmm. (reading product description) Yeah, I get a bit of a flaky scalp now and then [me: not just scalp...haha, try generally speaking!]
me: Oh, well I can always get you some. See, they even have stuff to tempt the lads! Lush has something for everyone. (Approach long stop light) Let’s see, then. (Turns paper towards me) Ohh, hon, that’s just hair conditioner. But still, can’t hurt to try.
NMD: (groans) Uhh…conditioner?!?! Well, there goes that then.

me: Huh?
NMD: Well, I’m not using shampoo at the moment so what need will I have for conditioner?! (exasperated)
me: (big groan) Grr, maybe you should change that policy and start using it again!!! Please?
NMD: (ponders) Nah.
me: Ugh
NMD: (mocking laugh) Heh heh heh…

End of scene.

I don’t get guys. They’re infuriating, but funny. Well, some are. If they’re infuriating and funny it’s cool. Infuriating by itself isn’t so crash-hot.

God I hate Pete Doherty. Okay, that’s well harsh given I don’t know the tosspot, but…come on, he’s a heroin addict, he’s stolen from his band mates and he’s got dirty fingernails.

It’s a tad unfortunate that he’s a member of the Libertines, a very catchy little act hailing from London town. I believe the singer, Carl Barat met Doherty whilst squatting in London. Pete Doherty sucks arse in his Babyshambles incarnation, but alas, in the Libertines he’s not half-bad.

I’ve got their second album, self-titled (at least I think it’s their second album) and it’s very good. All the usual tunes about self-deprecating, lost love, and being a lad skiving whenever possible (because that is what lads do best). They make it all sound so appealing because it’s just light-hearted enough for you to know they’re taking the piss out of themselves.

Song titles, I seem to not be able to remember them…I do know the main single was ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’ which is very bedroom shuffle (shuffle as in you’ll start 60s dancing) inducing despite its title. There’s also a song about a lovely lass. It reminds me of someone I know who shares the name of the girl in the song. It has some nice, whimsical lines like: “Since you said goodbye / Polka dots fill my eyes / and I don’t know why…”

There’s also a good deal of what I like to call “ooh ooh ooh action” in lots of the songs. Ah, no one does the Oohs like the Brits do, and variations of. They sound straight out of the 60s sometimes, they really do tip their hats to the rockers of old. I hope Doherty gets his act together because it’d be a shame if they didn’t manage to churn out any new stuff. Ah yes, “wouldn’t it be great to be Dorian Gray…just for a day…” I want to hear more tales of lads skiving and the sort. You know, so I can imagine what my life would be like if I were a guy.

I’ll take you anywhere you want to go…oh can’t stand me now, can’t stand me now…

The straits be dire. I was actually cruising MySpace for poetry groups that’s how badly I want some near-professional criticism on my work. I’m sorry about my previous entry. Amazing what an overnight sleep, a cuddle from a cat and little purple pills can do to somewhat restore the balance. I’m still heartbroken and fucking want to leave this horrid, cursed place (my parents’ house or Australia? haven’t decided) but lack of funds prevents that from being a reality.
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No matter how much time passes, there are always a handful of moments that try as you might, they continue to burn you if you think too much about them.

I just had one of those moments.
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I’m sad. I’m angry. I’m…desolate. I swear it has something to do with my parents’ place. Spent most of the week elsewhere and was fine, even if a certain moron claims I need looking after. What would he know, his head’s too far up his own arse see reality as it is.
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