Grumble grump

Thoughts of big skies and open roads keep distracting me from the matter at hand. The matter at hand, though, seems flimsy and colourless, a bland moment in time. I berate myself constantly for doing what seems to me to be Wasting Time. Again, I have the preciousness of time thrown in my face, with the death of someone I was once close to. There is no time to waste. None, nada, zip.

It just all seems so pointless sometimes, the dreary drugdgery of work, home, filling up time with ‘stuff’. It feels like the ‘stuff’ is junk food, nutrient-less, filling a void that just keeps getting bigger. I feel guilty, though, even saying this, knowing my everyday drudgings are so much easier than most, my job mainly stimulating, my life pretty damn rosy. In comparison.

I feel like I’m waiting for something big to happen, jumping from stepping stone to stepping stone in a marshland, toward a mirage that just keeps rushing further away. Wishing I could blame it on PMS I check my calendar hopefully, knowing my hormones are blameless this time.

Perhaps I need to stop jumpingjumpingjumping and just be still for a bit. Still and quiet. Maybe with a large bottle of gin and a couple of books.

Friday night party

When he sat down next to me I could almost smell that rich, earthy, moss smell. He reminded me of a beautiful, old tree with gnarled bark that tells a thousand stories, its tree toes snuggled in the rich earth, a coat of moss to keep it warm. I can't pinpoint exactly why, but he was the closest thing I've ever come across to a tree, other than an actual tree of course.

He had an air of sadness, though, that I recognised instantly. A loneliness that coursed through his veins, although we were surrounded by people at the party. A country creature in the city, we discussed my country longings and I envied his home in the hills.

She had bright red lips and flaming orange hair. She painted my lips the same red and, momentarily, I felt slutty and beautiful. I hadn't met her before, but I'd heard about her. The now-not-so-new girlfriend of a friend of mine. I was pleased, she's lovely and they seem truly happy and well-suited.

A drummer started the dancing. We all gathered, the cool crowd and me, a heaving mass of party people, noisy, vibey, but still, the loneliness, as I felt the beat go through me and shouted out for more. He was obliging and I wished I could take him home, put him in a corner of my lounge and get him to beat a life-affirming rhythm whenever I felt the urge.

A tree man, a girl with flaming orange hair and blood red lips, a clutch of old friends around flames in tin cans, then home to bed with avo on toast. Friday night in The City beneath the Mountain.

The unlonely man

I went for a follow up X-ray this morning but don’t fret, this post has no gory details of innards and such, it’s about the people I saw there. Mainly one of them. G took me, which made it much more fun. We decided to go a bit earlier and have some breakfast at the hospital canteen. I had Eggs Florentine for the first time in my life. It was delicious, other than the fact that the cheese sauce (I thought it was meant to be Hollandaise?) was made from processed cheese. Let me not get into a food review though, I am (again) straying.

I am always struck in hospitals by the invisible fog of emotion. As the electronic doors open, the fresh air from outside rushes in to dilute the flitting-about emotions inside – sadness for sick loved ones, ecstatic happiness for new beings just born, worry for unknown ailings – it swirls and twirls.

We sat at a table on the edge of the canteen, listening to the three ‘older’ ladies two tables away discussing last night’s episode of Survivor, something they obviously do every Tuesday morning, each one religiously sticking up for their favourite animal in the cage contestant.

As we sipped on our café lattes, chatting about all manner of things both of us looked toward the edge of the canteen area as an impeccably dressed man arrived, arranged his filofax and book neatly on a table, folded his jacket neatly on a chair and sat down. He ordered coffee from the waitress and sat with his hands neatly clasped on his lap. She brought the coffee and he ordered some toast and anchovette and ate it, also neatly.

In between his foodly orders he made a few phonecalls (one to the lady he was waiting for, to check he had time for the toast before she arrived, one to somebody (a friend perhaps, or a patient) to see if she was feeling better and had a good night), he received a call (I think from his lover, but that’s just my imagination running away with me) who he told he was waiting for a rep, having some coffee and toast. I sound nosey, don’t I? This was all done loudly, in a coffee shop, at a table near us, so I figure he wasn’t looking for privacy.

This all sounds pretty ordinary doesn’t it? But it wasn’t. You see, throughout all this (between his waitress interactions and phonecalls) he conducted a solid conversation. With himself. Just below hearing level. It was amazing and, as I said to G, what a great way to be! He must never be lonely, having himself as a constant companion, somebody who understands him fully and who he gets along with oh-so-very-well. I guess some people would call him mad.

We should all be so lucky to be that kind of companionable mad, shouldn’t we?

Fear again

My mind ambles, no, drags its little mind-feet from one place to the other, dead weight. As I start to latch onto one thing I am rudely forced to another, never quite getting a grip on any idea or thought, slowly trudging through a swamp of them, none more enticing than the next, all rather dreary really. A bunch of tadpoles in a muddy puddle, the wind whipping around it, threatening any hopes of them becoming frogs.

I received a joyous SMS from an old school friend, a lovely girl who deserves every ounce of happiness coming her way, announcing that she is expecting her second child. Not an unusual SMS for me to get, being of that age where people are getting into second (and third) sprogs. Happy families.*

Today, though, with my dreary, dredgy mind, it just slammed me on the back of my head and made me wonder when it was that I got left behind. How did I miss the queue for Finding a Husband and where was turnoff to the First Baby (and Second etc)? Which pathway did I accidently stumble away from? I realise I am not alone in this mid-30’s status, and also that the whole marriage thing has never been a huge focus in my life (I’m not one of those who has dreamt of my princess bridal gown since I was 6 years old.)

It’s none of that fairytale stuff, it’s that fear of mine again, rearing its ugly, sharp-tooth-filled head, red eyes glinting. Loneliness. It’s biting at my heels, its teeth bared, waiting. A fear that makes me do silly things and makes my head spin until I feel physically ill.

A fear I need to fight.

*For the record: I did not send a horrible, dark reply because I really am glad for her. It’s fabulous news and received the joyous reply it deserved.

Fear

It is a fear so intense that I can’t even bring myself to look at it. I know it’s there, I can feel its breath behind me, icy-cold and impossible to escape. I can even see its cavernous dark underbelly if I allow myself to look to the side just slightly, but I turn away as soon as I see its black hole of emptiness.

Instead I keep looking straight ahead, tie my blinkers on more firmly, double-knotted like I learnt at Brownies, and hope that, before it devours me whole, some incredibly brave creature will swoop down in a flash of light, its wings blowing warm air over me, and carry me away to a place where I am safe from it.

Have I told you of my fear of loneliness before?