Beautiful Dreamer

I haven’t yet had my first cuppa of the day, because I donated the last of the milk in the house to my daughter’s morning tea. If there may be a brief pause in which to amend this, that would be smashing.

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I have a few things to cover today, so let’s go.


The current fly in the gaming ointment this morning is that nylon isn’t as cool as canvas. TB yet again is spot on: yes, it’s a lie in the advert unless small print exists somewhere stating ‘items are for representation only, we reserve the right to substitute comparable products without warning.’  No, I don’t care enough about this to do the research, and remain staggered that anybody wants to pay nearly $200 for a video game.

These CE’s are a massive con, and always will be. They rely on companies getting brilliant deals on securing cheap, mass-produced merchandise, shoving on a huge markup and then presenting them as the latest Holy Grail for ‘customers’ to collect. They rely on us as consumers to be seduced by the idea of becoming a ‘true fan’ and therefore needing to own everything related to the game we so love.

It is a foolish woman who would tell anyone how to spend their cash, so I started with my own. Having spent a calendar year looking at how much was spent on such items, it became apparent that if buying ceased, enough could be saved to buy a new car. In the general scheme of things, prioritising purchases in the current climate is a sound financial choice.

Let people enjoy what they like. Standard caveats apply.


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There now follows a short message on how some people creep me right out.

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I don’t come with filters. As someone with ASD, what often happens is that subtlety and subtext from my responses is lacking. The flip-side to this is when people reply to me in a manner that they clearly think is acceptable, but ultimately ends up as crass or demeaning. I can see right through you people. The honest ones, those who are just here to talk and debate and be understanding/supportive are articulate and adult enough not to let their desires and motivations shine through.

The rest of you need to stop being so… well, obvious.

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Once upon a time I’d be told that it was my imagination, that the middle-aged guys replying to every woman’s lament in their timeline really did just care and wasn’t assuaging their own ego. Now, times have changed. At the weekend I watched someone who not only creeped on me but exploited me in the past get called out for the utter douche-bag that he is. If you do it to enough people, eventually, you will get found out.

If you’re genuinely interested in the people that are followed, start actual conversations. Try not to sound like everything you say is to make you feel better about yourself. Understand that sometimes, if you want to actually be appreciated and noticed, the best way isn’t to make it about you. Learn how to be critical without having to resort to demeaning or irresponsible language. Most importantly of all, if you’re making me feel like you’re creeping every woman you follow, then you probably are.

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Most importantly of all, help yourself. If social media is the place you come to as an escape, or the means to make you feel better about reality, that’s not right. Remember that everybody you follow can watch conversations that go on not just between you and them, but with everybody else too. You might get a bit of a shock when you stand back and see exactly what’s being said across a wider view.

If you’re creeping me out, you have a problem.


Two days until it’s December.

I’d better get on.

Under the Boardwalk

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This is different. Everything is… stronger, more connected, less stressful. Last night there was a flash-point, and instead of the whole thing devolving into chaos, there was order. Wisdom came from the most unexpected of sources and rebellion was, frankly refreshing this morning. Also, yesterday evening I was confident enough to do something that a year ago would have filled me with dread. It is all… well, hopeful.

I’ve also worked out why the weight loss is not as fast as it could be, or indeed should be. RIP any sweeteners in my tea until Christmas.

It’s doable.


Today, once I’ve placed some new weights on the chest press bar and held myself for ten seconds longer in a plank than yesterday, is the final sweep up of backlog so the next poetry deadline can be met with over a week to spare. If there needed to be a true indicator of progress, then that’s it. I’ve got a list of editing/deadline stuff to poke, NaNoWriMo beginning in fifteen days, and a fairly stress-free cruise to Christmas.

There are a number of potential issues on the horizon. We’ll deal with it if/when it happens.

Think

Maybe it isn’t just me that’s the problem.

Perhaps sometimes, other people forget to think. That comment would have just been better not being vocalised. You could have not pressed ‘Send’ but now you have? It’s okay. You said sorry, I’ll move on. Except sometimes it takes a while. It used to be that I held grudges, that was how this worked. I wouldn’t forget the hurtful things, and that made me the bad person, unforgiving. What you fail to grasp here is that I’m the one having to accommodate your failings, and only by doing so do you get to move on. That whole conspiracy about forgiveness being the best quality? Maybe if you thought first, we wouldn’t need this whole dance to begin with.

I know that’s the real truth, now after many years of considering actions borne from thoughtlessness and selfishness. Taking what you want, assuaging your own weaknesses, this is how the spiral begins. I’ll do this, nobody will get hurt. It can be our secret. Anything where there’s not a notion of honesty is where life begins to unravel. If you have to deceive over your sexuality to maintain personal safety. If your professional relationship crossed a line. All these little lies, the moments you could have said no but wanted yes because it stopped the hurt, made you feel better. People are weak. Temptation is strong. It doesn’t matter, because that person’s feelings aren’t the concern, this isn’t about them.

Maybe it isn’t just you that’s the problem.

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More and more I grasp the significance of organised religion in society. Once upon a time, when all you had to worry about was the crops and waking up the next day healthy? I suspect the concept of death was a big deal. Knowing that this was covered for you, that God would be there to escort you to paradise and the crops would be a distant memory? Suddenly there’s a reassurance in the knowledge you can get on with planting and harvesting without a worry. If you thought about coveting your neighbour’s husband? There was a punishment for that too. Religion brought a structure and control to lives that otherwise would undoubtedly be driven as the animals were: procreation, dominance, care at the bottom of the pile. Except that’s not true. Care often comes first. It is the perception of significance that clouds everything else along the way.

On my morning walks last week I’d stroll pass a Kingdom Hall, several Catholic Churches. This town is packed with religion, close to both sea and river. It is a place of immigration and arrival: people travel here, settle from their points of disparate origin. The eastern European supermarket, west African posters for money transfer: fingerprints of global travel smeared across the town, one side to another. The Bangladeshi takeaway that burned on Tuesday morning, filled with fire investigation staff by the afternoon. Cannoli catch my eye in the small Italian diner, almost make me stop before breakfast to buy some to accompany morning tea. There is a cosmopolitan air to my home, yet every person is moved by the same, intractable emotional responses. Without order, we descend into chaos.

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I suspect obsession with the past is in direct correlation to struggles with the present. History is supposed to teach an understanding of why, to assist in the now. Except in a game I play I’ve watched history revised, conveniently re-written to accommodate change in direction. It happens to in the real world, belief that atrocities never took place. Women never had a part in history either: was this due to chroniclers being mostly male?  The church paid monks to rewrite ancient history, not nuns. It transpires the final resting place of one of the most famous Egyptian kings might in truth be the tomb of a more significant woman. Can I use sexuality as a stick to beat anyone when it, like religion, is so ingrained in the consciousness of the planet there is no way for a single voice to be heard above the clamour.

Maybe it is you and me that are the problem.

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History is flexible, supple if you know how to work materials. Except for me, and now, there is only this history, intimate moments that have gone, and I have no desire to retcon myself. Being critical of mistakes I have made myself is what I am. Only when I learn to move past and accept that shortcomings are a part of a history that spans tens of thousands of years can a willing mind truly move forward. Understanding the present and the past provides the best answers of all, perfect combination of disparate worlds.

Maybe, if I just stopped looking for the problems, everything would be fine.

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I got sunburn walking to and from the Gym yesterday. Moisturising skin has become a constant occurrence. T-shirts don’t fit around the tops of arms and shoulders. The last time I bled it was April. Body is changing, and the sensation is, I’ll admit, often disconcerting. Sleep’s a battle when boiling one moment and freezing the next. Anti histamines simply fail to work, but taking paracetamol cures hay fever. No, I don’t understand what the fuck is going on, but am coping far better than was ever expected, though today there will be heads down before lunchtime. Fatigue is a constant issue, especially when working hard enough at the gym for sweat to soak through two layers of clothing.

The results however are enough to offset hormonal disturbance.

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There has been painfully slow progress on organising back end stuff, but yesterday a ton of folders and directories got rearranged and restructured. Post it notes are everywhere, slowly being torn and binned, each piece picked up and fitted into this new picture. There are e-mails to write, but without clarity they remain nebulous and uncertain. There’s a path however, obvious and inviting. Poetry surprisingly becomes a salvation, words again giving comfort when deeds and actions fail. They’re the repetitive actions, steps on a treadmill, reps in a weightlifting set. Do this enough times and habits form, gains are made. That’s the way forward.

Words

There’s still too much mess around here. Time to clean and tidy, dispose and remove.

No time any more for clutter.

Wake Me Up

This week is SERIOUS BUSINESS. It is organising and shedding skin. Warmth becomes clouded calm. Feet ache, mind expands and accommodates change of pressure, weather fronts. Clouds dissipate, brightness breaks. A new five days of possibility.

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I am never enough, always wanting and never satisfied. Money restricts and desire pushes, the things needed and not yet available. Ambient noise is the soundtrack, moments from others minds. Points of sonic connection pull places together. Their ideas, my interpretation, our conclusions. 140 characters in the World’s Game play ball with meaning and understanding. Today I use work as thread, stitch together an outfit, survive for the week.

Exercises in comfort zoning. Build your towers, destroy the Empires. Sun, moon and Universe in a heartbeat, the breath of unexpected pleasure. His voice, my feelings join together, expanding consciousness. Better horizons, larger ambition. Make everything stronger. Reinforce the understanding. Words are not just bricks, but mortar and foundation. Everything can be built, just hand me the plans. Show me the design.

Give me the truth.

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My hands can shape and change the world I know. My mind will grow and foster life and beauty. Belief is mine to grasp and hold. Anything is possible. Just use the words.