Written yesterday

Roughly 30°C and a gorgeous day, and I finally make my way out into the owrld mid-afternoon. I’ve spoilt myself with a café brunch, and sat there over a coffee while working out a shopping list that roughly stays with within the budget I’m going to have to live within this week. Next week’s budget will be even tighter, but the I think of the riches I have at hand, and I really cannot complain (or feel no need to).

Without the distractions of consumption (and how I love consumption, guilty pleasure), I have many things to concentrate on: new songs to learn for singing; new (and old) songs on the guitar, a blues harmonica to begin to learn to play; a recording studio unit to play with (and figure out before next weekend when on eof my singing teacher’s other students may be coming over to record something); a smorgasbord of CDs to listen to (and organise into the new shelves I have for them); a stack of books waiting to be read; editing workbooks to be completed; books on self-esteem to be read, exercises done; cats to be patted; long baths to be had; bike rides to be taken; T-shirt designs to b e thought up; tatoo designs to be researched; ideas for new projects to be written down; posts for the blog to b e thought up; generations of family photos to be scanned; new photographs to be taken; interesting ad hoc song lyrics and guitar tabs to be googled; and a selection of TV programs to be watched.

And in there, I shall fit working on a new assignment for a design studio that I haven’t worked for before. New people, new location, a reasonably long assignment. It is a good time for me to break old habits. I’m looking forward to this week.

*Wallowing Alert*

I’ve never claimed this to be anything other than a place for me to purge personal thoughts, to sift through them, slow them down, hoping I might find a nugget of sense amongst the slops… when really all there is, is dirty muddy water.

I had a strange weekend, one where I spent the most part of 60 hours straight asleep in an attempt to escape the migraine that overtook me on Thursday night. It wasn’t the worst, or anywhere near it. I didn’t wish to die. But it was exhausting.

Sunday afternoon saw me finally creep out of my bed feeling shaky and foggy and dizzy, but the pain had retreated, as had the nausea. It was about this time I got a phone call from Malcolm, the ex. He wanted to know what to do with some very old tax papers of mine he had found amongst his things while he was packing. Not long after that, I heard someone at my gate, and there he was, an unannounced visitor, with the papers under his arm (even though we’d agreed on him mailing them). It was so strange, and there was no time to talk, so we said a quick, awkward goodbye, and then he shook my hand. It was rather comical.

And then he was off, climbing into the cab that was taking him and his girlfriend off to the airport, to their new life in Melbourne, and I sat there, feeling sad. Even the friendship we’d managed to salvage has now come to an end.

It is all well timed. Our divorce was finalised today.

Last night I lay in bed, unable to sleep (not surprising, considering) as the time flicked over in its red squared numbers. 1.00 2.00 2.30 3.30 4.30

I lay there and the betraying tears squeezed out of my eyes, even though I tried to deny to even myself that they were there.

There’s noone left. Noone who knew me when I was married. Noone who knew me before then. Noone who knows any of my history. Noone who knew me as an angry and shy teenager, as a flirtatious twenty-something, as a person who was literally bowled over by a love she didn't know she was capable of. A person with a strength to walk away from a life that was damaging her. Noone who lived these things with me. Noone who might be able to look at me today and maybe still see a little of the potential that was there with youth.

The last friend from that time moved to Melbourne, herself, two months ago, with a promise to phone and email once she had settled in. I’ve not heard a word from her since. Which makes me ponder that friendship, too, really.

I lay there alone and thought "I am alone." With my cats for company, tolerated (just) by my immediate family.

How can someone end up 38 years old without a single friend?