Skylark

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There are pictures on the Mac to my right that form part of a screensaver. They’re of me, wearing a dress for last year’s Works Christmas do held by husband’s favourite supplier. The more I stare at them, the less I recognise the person staring back. Somewhere between December and now, a major shift of being has taken place. Intrinsically, I remain the whole that has always existed but something fundamental has grown, where before there was just empty space. It isn’t just the exercise either. Opening my creative avenues to possibilities that were simply too frightening a year ago, there has come a significant shift in so many outlooks.

I’m still a mess though, and maybe that’s finally something to consider as a positive.

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I don’t stop being shit at stuff. Learning to ‘be better’ doesn’t mean I become some superior human being either: I’ve become more adept at seeing what I do that’s shit and possibly being able to stop that happening before I make a mess of things. That whole thinking before you speak thing’s really got some merit, so when you throw yourself into my mentions trying to be all edgy and cool and I tell you it’s not helpful, I thought REALLY hard about the consequences. Most of the time now, I won’t engage anybody in conversation without some real conviction behind my words.

I also do a lot of watching that never happened previously. As time allows me the measure of contemplation on previous mistakes made, comes an understanding that there’s a better than average chance I’d have fucked all that previous stuff up anyway. The good people, the really decent ones who see the whole picture and not just edited highlights, get what I am, to begin with, the complex combination of neuroses and control, imperfect balance of perception and dispair. There is no need to keep explaining for their benefit. All the narrative is for me as my journey becomes clear.

I’m here to make myself better or die trying.

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Right now, I feel like an incomplete sculpture. Piece by piece, hands mould me into a different version of myself, still made from the same basic raw material. It’s like my features were compacted, flattened, old look just not quite right, and a new artist has come in to oversee a makeover. Except this is not dressing the same, or eating as was the case before… or indeed so many other things. It is not a tailor’s dummy being given different materials to fashion over a frame. This is the body itself becoming a new frame onto which and within so much will now need to change.

Internally, my mind is much like the house around me: piles of stuff, waiting to be sorted, things on lists flagged up for alteration once the basic processes are ingrained as repetition. Order, like it or not, is the most vital part of progress. Chaos allows growth, but often without workable form. I the midst of all of this there is a path and a plan, and if I can keep control of my own body’s anger in all of its forms?

There’s a seismic shift not far away.

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