Big Day Out, here I come!

I feel like I'm mourning the loss of something, yet I can't even name what is missing.

Pride cometh...

Last week I had a catch up drink with someone I used to work with. The same someone I used to have the crush on.

I don’t know, really, why we bother. He, out of some sense of obligation, perhaps, to someone who obviously struggles to be social, and me, well, I enjoy his company, even if I do feel a little dissatisfied at the end of our very occasional catch ups.

At least now I don’t feel the intensity of the crush I once did. And I will be honest that it was never anything other than a play thing to toy with in my mind; the thought of actually going out with him is something I know would not have ever worked for me! Excuse the cliché, but a crush on him was like admiring an Italian sports car, knowing you don’t have to deal with its temperamental nature, its always being at the mechanics, not being able to take it out in the rain for fear of damaging the paint work, never mind the constant worry that it is being stolen out of the garage while you’re sleeping, and the insurace! Oh, the insurance! So, a crush was a nice (safe) way to feel the warm and fuzzies (and the green eyes) without ever worrying that it was "real".

Having said that, I can’t deny that whenever he would momentarily rest his hand on my knee as he made a point in the conversation, I would feel a little flustered. I’m only human.

So anyway, we met after work and had a few beers and talked. We talked about work. We talked about love. About God. Or the lack of God. About sex. About attraction. About nesting pigeons and Thailand sex tours. About sport. About books. About patting tigers and about fitting washing machines into tiny laundries. We sat in the evening air, which turned to a drizzle, which turned to a downpour. And finally, as the bar staff packed away the seats around us, we stood to leave.

He offered to walk me to my train, but I brushed aside the notion. It wasn’t late, and he lived in the opposite direction. So he gave me hug goodnight and we both turned and walked in our opposite directions, with the rain pouring down on our sodden heads.

I managed about a dozen steps down Martin Place before I slipped on the slick paving, smashing my right knee into the concrete. Talk about coming down with a thump, literally.

The knee is still a vile green bloom of bruises (isn’t it amazing the colours that nature can create),.

The following day I had an email from another (male) friend. I had invited him and his girlfriend along to the catch up drink as the two lads knew each other, and I thought they got on quite well.
The email went something like:
Friend: So, how was last night?
Me: It was fun.
Friend: I just wanted you to know that I won’t accept an invite to have a drink with him.
Me: Oh? How come?
Friend: We have difference of opinions.
Me: So I shouldn’t tell you that he said to say hi?
Friend: Oh, it’s all civil if we are in the same room. Just I won’t go for drinks.
Me: Umm ok. Can I ask what the difference of opinions was about?
Friend: I’d rather not say.

I make polite comments about respecting his feelings, and I do understand, as there are people I rather not socialise with… but I just cannot fathom what would have upset him so much considering how friendly they once were. And now I feel a bit weird around both of them, as though I’ve stumbled into something I should not have.

I thought blokes were much more straight forward than this.

I really have to start posting more consistently...

I know... I write it down but don't post it.

Anyway, this is where my brain has been pinging about... expect no sense, nor resolution. It's just brain flotsam.

Before New Year’s Eve
I can’t believe that yet another year is nearly over, and if I were to go for an immediate appraisal of the year, I’d say that nothing of note happened. But of course that isn’t true. Quite a few notable things have happened. Between a new client to work for, having to put down the beloved Kirby, finally taking up guitar lessons, and, sneaking in at the end of the year, joining (and actually going!) to the gym. I got rid of my reliance on a car. I had a close friend die, and another sacrifice our friendship for her own purposes. I’ve met new people with common interests. I’ve managed to keep up writing, if at a lessened rate. And I’ve joined the Writer’s Centre – I’m not sure where that will take me, but the possibilities of editing courses could open up a new stream of income for me. I’ve managed another year of keeping my head above water without resorting to fulltime work.

And what will my hopes be for this new year? Well, I have to be a little realistic. The first six months are going to be hard work, making up some money that the tax man will want by July. But still, I will keep up the gym and the guitar. They are a given now. Should I let my hopes go wild? OK, well, I’d like to be fit by my next birthday (July) and I’d like to be considerably smaller. I don’t need to be a supermodel type… I would just like to feel normal amongst my friends. And maybe be normal enough that I could feel comfortable if someone showed an interest in me. And be normal enough that someone might, indeed, show an interest in me. But that’s so much unplannable. I don’t mind being on my own, so I don’t feel a desperation to find ‘someone’, but may be I should cut down a few of the obstacles, if only so I can feel better about myself. That’s a bizarre doublesided coin, the way I feel about myself and how I see myself in others’ eyes.

What else? Well, obviously I would like very much to improve my guitar playing. And the aim is to buy an electric by the end of 2006. Something that will be able to give me that dirty grungy sound that I love so much.

And the final big thing, that realistically I might have to push to 2007, but maybe not if I get something small and cheap – my motorbike.

So just work through the first half of the year focussed on improved fitness and playing, reassess, and then go for the big aims.

I’m slowly becoming the person I want to be.

A week or so ago
I could just blame hormones that I cried to a Kelly Clarkson film clip today. Too sensitive. That’s me. Turn to your father and say ‘Enough". Self-preservation must come into it. At some point, I have to say what I have to say.

But it could be hormones as well.

And we laughed and posed in our silly glasses and mo’s, and we never forget that she’s gone, as we raised our glasses to our friend.

Make a plan. Stick to it. Morning, night, allowance for foibles. Stick to it. Give yourself a chance, demand more of yourself, have more faith in yourself, expect more from yourself. Noone knows your limits, not even you.

You know you want more. Maybe you’re afraid to think of how much more you really do want. But stop holding yourself back, face down the fears. That niggling feeling isn’t going away. You can do better than you do.

A day after that
Still feeling trapped, suffocating. How to get out of this rut. How to get away from this tremor, pending disaster, something lurking, waiting to pull away any sense of stability I’ve built up. This lifestyle doesn’t suit me. After two years I should know that I cannot relax, but then I also don’t want to feel the smothering certainty of the same day repeated for weeks, for years.

I used to be able to set myself creative little projects to keep my mind active – the apathy has settled so thoroughly that I cannot even seem to do that anymore. I have no faith in my ability to do anything.

And a day after that
Find me the words, I’ll find you the way.
There’s no greater truth in the words that you say.
Thrust me the truth and I’ll push it away.
There’s nothing to save, I’m a husk from decay.

If I felt like I had just one answer, just one grasp on something leading away from this, leading to something more. I turn and turn and turn, 360 degrees, and each degree a step, but what if that step is wrong, if I follow that tangent, I’ll end up miles from shore and lost from sight. If I keep turning in circles I’ll simply never move.

I’m overwhelmed by the fact that in two and a half years I will be forty. I don’t know why but 2.5, a quarter of ten, something about that number, its cleanness, its easy divisiveness. And why should forty be that significant, although for some reason it is. Maybe it is the invisible line that women cross… there’s my fertility, and there it isn’t, jump the line, jump back again, here, gone, here, gone.

I’ve never really imagined myself having children. I always though I’d be too weak, too selfish, a bad mother. Sitting in a doctor’s surgery during my early 20s, the fresh bandaid on my arm, the blood off for testing, the doctor wanted to discuss the options if the results were positive. For me there was no option. I could not have a child. I could not be a mother. Not because I did not want a child, not because of all the financial implications, not because there would be no father for the child. The answer was simple. I could not have a child because I was not good enough to be a mother. The doctor’s face seemed concerned at my distress, but not understanding. And it was not to be a decision I would need to make, for the results were negative. They have always been negative, and I have always been relieved.

Today... well, today I believe that I could be a good enough mother. I finally understand how strong my love can be. But I don’t expect it. There won’t be a right time, a right situation. There won’t be a father. Not in time.

I never really imagined having children. But I never really imagined being told I couldn’t have children, either, purely because of my age. The irony that is only with age that I’ve learnt I could, and with age I’ve learnt I most likely can’t.


And maybe that’s something I should be taking to heart; the finality of life. It is not limitless. There will not always be a tomorrow. There are things that most people would figure out early on… I feel like I’m just politely holding the door open but everyone’s ducking through ahead of me and I, ever courteous, cannot step away to begin my journey.