Category: Confessions

Take the shirt off my back

I think I’m at risk of starting to look like a homeless person.

You see, my eras are defined sartorially. I buy clothes, I wear them ’til they break, I keep wearing them until the situation becomes untenable, I fix the clothes, I wear them ’til they’re unfixable, and then I reluctantly toss them and buy more clothes.

My boots, my coats, my trousers, my jumpers, my bags; they’re all wearing out. By which I mean they are all already broken, but haven’t fallen off me yet. I was out walking earlier, and realised the cuff of my winter coat has worn away to the extent that it is revealing its white innards. It has holes everywhere else too, inside and out, but the exposed stuffing seemed to be The Wake-up Call. If I do an honest inventory, a lot of items are going to find themselves in the bin.

I do have nice clothes, too. The ones I don’t wear as much. The fancy ones. But come to think of it, some of those are looking weathered.

I guess I get attached. I get attached to the person I am in these garments. Attached to their particular utility. To the history I have shared with them. To the fabric that will never precisely exist again.

I’ve always been like this – the more dilapidated the clothing, the more I love it. It used to be an aesthetic choice, and sometimes it still is. But if I could look from the outside, I think I’d see it differently.

So I guess its time for a new era.

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The kindness of strangers

black and white, grainy photorealistic image, one person handing a tangle of worms to another person

I don’t know if you know this, but I come here to, like, work my shit out. And it’s becoming increasingly apparent that the other methods I employ probably aren’t as good as this one. For some reason, writing myself clean with a dose of radical-though-likely-subconsciously-biased honesty, in front of downwards of a hundred strangers on the internet, plus a few people who know me, plus occasionally some people who want to date me, is the most effective way of detangling the dysfunction in my brain.

Of that ragtag audience, my favourites are the strangers, mainly because I can allow myself to believe that they are here because of something inherently interesting in what I am writing, rather than simply morbid curiosity or some sense of affection for the person I am outside of the confines of this space.

I don’t mind at all the other people being here; I don’t feel constricted by their presence (though I can imagine a reality in which that became true), it’s just that they play into my belief that there is nothing inherently worthy in what I have created here – they are here because of their interest in me, and probably their interest in me is what dictates how much of this disjointed monologue they’re willing to endure. The people who know me do have a habit of occasionally countering this by telling me they think it’s good, but of course they’re being more generous than genuine, right? And the people who want to date me, well, that’s a tangle of worms, isn’t it? Should I be flattered or offput or suspicious or grateful? Who the fuck knows?

Truth is, this place is part of me. People who come here have the opportunity of knowing me better, in some ways, than the people who know me out there. And I am grateful for anyone who takes the time to do so. But the meaning I take from their willingness to read my words is about them, rather than about me. I see it as a kindness. And maybe that’s best.

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Tweet tweet

I have waded into Twitter.

It seems a weird time to do that. Not because I have particular opinions on how Elon is managing things, given my up-to-this-point complete lack of investment, but more just because…Elon is managing things. And my coincidental presence feels like a statement that I’m not qualified or inclined to make. I will admit I probably veer more toward the Elon-fanboy category than away from it – I would rather trust him than many of the other options. But I know fucking nothing, so make of that as little as it warrants.

So why have I waded into Twitter?

I’ll be frank. It’s because I watched Lex Fridman on Andrew Huberman’s podcast and it reminded me how much I fucking love the guy, and how from the moment I heard him speak I believed in his integrity, and from the moment I heard him speak about love I was thrilled to hear those kinds of words out of, well, anyone’s mouth except my own, but specifically an intelligent, rational man’s mouth. And it turned out a lot had happened since I decided it would be weird to tune into an artificial intelligence podcast just to hear his voice. He’s kind of a bigger deal now. And he even talks to psychologists.

So, naturally, I then immersed myself in his content to explore whether this admiration and, dare I fucking say, desire I felt, persisted.

And it did. So that told me some things. Not least that I am not in fact beyond having a proper fucking crush on someone. It hadn’t happened for a fucking while, so I was beginning to wonder. But of course I wanted to investigate the underpinning factors, given the fact I am unlikely ever to meet the man, let alone actually know him.

And what I learned, first, was that I wanted to be the kind of person that would attract a person like Lex Fridman. And what I learned, next, was that I am not, necessarily, not the kind of person that would attract a person like Lex Fridman. And what I learned, then, was that, regardless of that, there are things I admire about Lex Fridman that I would like to integrate into my own character, and that is more important to me than attracting anyone else into my life.

And so I wanted to scout for any opportunities to submit a question to him about something he has mastered that I have not. And Twitter seemed to be the obvious way.

So. after this extended meander, I arrived at Twitter to find that, of course, I had already been there and forgotten about it, when I intended to explore Writers’ Twitter. I have, in actuality, visited Twitter on a number of occasions, armed with a number of email addresses, and with a number of intentions…but none of it amounted to anything.

Yet there I was again, and this time, for some reason, without much thought, I fucking replied to a Lex Fridman post, and went about my day. Now, I absolutely acknowledge that is not remotely a big deal, objectively speaking. But, like I said, I’ve been to Twitter many times, and always I’ve felt deeply uncomfortable with the idea of actually engaging; fucking hell, no fucking thank you very much. And that’s why nothing came of it.

So, now I’m living in a new fucking reality, why fucking stop there? There are photos of space to comment on in awe, and writing prompts to indulge myself in ’til the cows come home. I am being conservative with it. Sort of. Maybe. I don’t fucking know. But, I’m there, and it doesn’t paralyse me to consider posting a tweet. So tweet I fucking shall.

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Wordgame: Baby

I’ve just come out of a two-day water fast, I’ve got the day off work, and, before I turn back to my gleeful-first-draft-of-a-second-novel, I thought let’s pull something out of the elephant box.

I have never been one for pet names. But I am a sucker for an American accent. Any American accent; I am not remotely picky. My friend once pointed out my unconscious tendency to crane my neck overtly and immediately in the direction of any male American accent I hear. Which was sort of reassuring, because at least I know I’m not lying about it.

As such, I went through a phase of fantasising about a heterosexual American man routinely calling me ‘baby’. Don’t know why. But maybe I do.

It’s one of those words that only an American can get away with, as far as I’m concerned. Another one is ‘pussy’. Unless we’re talking about actual babies and cats, obviously. But if we’re talking about actual cats you have to say ‘pussy-cat’; you can’t just say ‘pussy’. To be honest though, thinking about it, it might just be English people specifically who make me cringe when they defy those decrees.

Up until fairly recently I ached to live in the United States. It felt like where I was supposed to be; like my true home. And once, when travelling in the US, I discussed this with a Canadian during a coach-ride-from-Santa-Rosa-to-San-Jose-long love affair. For the record, a Canadian accent is absolutely close enough to trigger my neurons, and they also benefit from much more favourable stereotypes, so there is that. He posited that my desire was the fault of all the American TV I watched in my youth. I did not like that reasoning. But he was probably right.

I watched a lot of American TV. I probably watched more American TV than I did anything else. The only thing that could have rivalled ‘America’ as a prevalent theme in my life was ‘horses’ and, to be honest, the two often happily overlapped. So, an American accent is probably as comforting to me as an equine aroma. It probably reminds me of childhood. Makes me feel safe. Fills the role of my absent father. Relieves the insecure attachments of my past.

Once, I was walking alone, aged fourteen, along a random street in Florida – could not tell you why – and a guy shouted out of their car as they drove past “you’re beautiful, sweetheart!” and the joy that filled me with lives in my cells. Now we could pick that interaction apart, and find many flaws, but we’re not going to. A male American accent to me sounds like relief. It sounds like invitation to someone who viscerally believes they are uninvited.

Which is weird. Logical, but weird. Kinda broken. A weakness unwise to admit to; so easily exploited it could be. So, yeah, if you have the credentials, call me baby. I’m curious to see what would happen.

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Overhead lines

Today was a hot day.

I think the hottest on record for these here British Isles. And I chose to ride on the Metro – the notoriously outdated, incompetent, delay-ridden public transport service that had just yesterday melted.

I could have opted to stay at home.

I could have opted to take the car.

But I took the Metro.

I found practical reasons to argue against those other options. But before the practicalities came the raw desire to ride on the Metro on the hottest day ever. To be part of the excitement. To see what all the fuss was about. To live, goddammit.

I worried I was being stupid; that I’d end up having a miserable day and regret defying the prevalent advice. Please don’t travel on the Metro system if your journey isn’t necessary. But I wanted to. So I did.

And I had a wonderful time, sweat running down the backs of my legs while I tapped my fingers to the Hamilton soundtrack and the train car knocked us all about a bit. I can’t explain it, but it was so much better than not riding the Metro on the hottest day on record. Imagine if I’d just stayed at home! If I hadn’t followed that odd, pointless whim. My day would have just been fine.

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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 I 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.

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