S Pen

My mobile device of the past three and a half years has been getting a little ornery lately. In its defence, it has been dropped on countless occasions with absolutely no consideration for its wellbeing. But still, the situation was becoming tedious.

I convinced myself to hold off on rectifying things with an impulse purchase until after my birthday, when an anticipated modest influx of cash will ease the burden.

When it comes to technology, I’m not a frequent updater – too much faff to keep setting things up. But when I do finally get around to making the significant purchase have most likely not planned for, I must confess to a rather imprudent proclivity to desire the shiniest, sleekest, most impractically optimal piece of equipment I happen to lay my clammy eyes upon.

And, once I set my sights upon a device, I am regrettably unyielding from that point forward. It must be that one now. The one I have decided to love. The one I have committed myself to, come Hell or high water.

SO I’m writing this with my new S pen on my new S22 Ultra. Unnecessary, yes. Overly indulgent, undoubtedly. The day before my birthday, indeed.

Dull the shine

In the garden centre today I saw they were hiring and I thought ooh, maybe I should apply, maybe they’ll have some hours that fit around my current job but don’t cut into Makaloo time, and I thought about what a nice time I’d surely have working at the garden centre. And then I started working out just how many hours I could squeeze in, and what kind of rota I could accommodate, and how I could rejig my responsibilities to make more space for my imaginary job at the garden centre. I don’t know why I do this. The best object is always the shiny object, apparently. Every emergent possibility is the most compelling. I have more or less learned not to follow the instinct to chase these possibilities, but I still waste an inordinate amount of time excitedly considering them.

Working at the garden centre would absolutely not fit into my life, or take me in any direction I want to go. I’d be stressed out, smothered under a pile of dirty dishes, and I’d spend all the extra money on plants. If I had a few dozen avatars, it might make sense for one of them to work at the garden centre, because I like it there. But I don’t have a few dozen avatars, or even a couple, so I should really fix my gaze on the things I actually want, in this single life that I have the privilege of living. I have three active endeavours right now, and three is altogether too many. I can’t feasibly make it less, but I certainly shouldn’t be trying to make it more.

What must it be like for one’s deires to be immutable?

I can’t say for certain that mine aren’t, actually, it’s just that they are so profuse I routinely forget the order of them.

Interrogated fear

It’s funny how most of our fears are not the fears we think they are when we think them.

Well, I can only really speak for myself, but I know it is reported to be a wider human proclivity.

I have been noticing lately, when I get a scary thought, the vague fear that encroaches seems on the surface to be about one thing, but if I stay with it, explore it, interrogate it, it turns out to be something altogether different. Something altogether stupider.

For instance, am I scared that my life will never get any better because I dislike my current life? Or is it actually that, even though I love my life, I’m scared that if it isn’t, at all times, actively and immediately getting better in demonstrable ways, it’ll inexplicably start getting worse, and then other people will blame me for not having a good life? Yeah, it’s the second one. The stupider one.

It’s worth questioning these things, because when you see the stupid in broad daylight, it makes it much less appealing to hold onto.

A new world

I wrote a few months ago about how I started writing a story sixteen years ago, and how, despite thinking I was incapable of finishing it, I realised recently I had in fact written much more of it than I remembered. After that point, I decided to get serious about the story. To commit to it. And then I realised how much more work there was to do on it to get to where it needed to be. With an uneasy mixture of disappointment and determination, I resolved to complete my first book in 2022.

And then, yesterday, on the second day of 2022, I realised that, actually, I already have.

So that was a weird paradigm shift.

I have in no way completed the story. But I have passed the natural conclusion of the first book, and sunk my toes deep into the fertile soil of the second. And, contrary to what my very serious self had been telling me, I don’t need to fundamentally change that first book. I had convinced myself I needed to fit the vision of the entire story into the first book, rather than just allowing it to be what it is. But, of course, the first book has its own vision, and it declared it to me quite cheerfully over Christmas. Once I accepted that, I was able to see that it already has all the pieces it needs. It is, at its heart, complete.

So I’ve written a book. First draft anyway. Well, more of a first-and-a-half draft. Well, okay, some bits are already a fourth or a fifth draft. I started it a long time ago, okay?

I don’t know exactly how long it will take me to finish typing the fucker up, let alone buffing all the dents out. But it is clear that my timescale has drastically reduced from initial projections.

Happy New Year.

Easy way out

You know what I would prefer?

Would you perhaps prefer to save your most cringe-inducing confessions for a private journal, instead of plastering them on the unforgiving coastal rockface of the internet where, one day, when you least expect it and perhaps have more to lose, they could be dredged up and aired out in front of a cold and harshly judging audience?

No, I’d prefer it if it turned out Polaris was in love with me. And I would prefer it if it turned out I was in love with him. Not the ideal version of him that exists in my imagination, but the actual person that I can’t claim to know. And, I promise, it’s not because I’ve been watching fucking Christmas rom-coms. Wait, it’s not, is it?

I have long become comfortable with it not happening, of course.

Obviously.

…In theory.

I am not especially concerned with the packaging my future fucking life partner is wrapped within. They certainly don’t have to be him. But they do have to be a lot of things. Things I (probably inaccurately) associate with him, and have yet to associate with anybody else.

So the problem is this – and, maybe, like the mechanic stuff, this’ll seem less like the case when my son is older; maybe this is just a phase of my existence where I am destined to be romantically unattached, with hands devoid of tools – finding someone I don’t yet know to build a fucking life with just sounds like so much fucking trouble. Finding someone who meets the fucking criteria is just such a fucking hassle.

Love is not an issue. Love is fucking abundant. I have no trouble loving. She fucking says. I just can’t be bothered to build up trust. I can’t be bothered to invest time in someone who might not be where I am. I can’t be bothered to go through all the motions of developing the relationship in a fucking healthy and appropriate manner. I have enough of that in my dreams, for fuck’s sake. It would be such a relief to skip merrily through that part, because the person who my brain has already been rewired to unconditionally revere, coincidentally, turns out to be worthy and reciprocating of that in such a way that it facilitates a real world, physical reality, human relationship. That’d be nice, eh?

A year and a half ago, my ex – in some vague attempt to maybe, kind of, get me back, but not really, just maybe see if I was available, I don’t know, just find out, theoretically, if that could be an option, you know, if he decided that he wanted it to be, he wasn’t sure, just putting the feelers out – said it would be so much easier if we were together. And, as much as that didn’t make me swoon, I empathise. I would like things to be easier too.

For me, though, the logistics aren’t the issue. The logistics pale in comparison to the emotional labour. So I don’t much care if I have to cross oceans. I just want someone I would happily cross oceans for. But, more importantly, I want someone who has earned my crossings, so…

I don’t think I’m going to be able to take the easy way out. I think I have to go through the hassle.

…Ugh…maybe later.