Twister

I've sort of decided I need to chill the fuck out a bit. Which may sound utterly incomprehensible to your ears because of how, you know, all those people come up to me all the time just to comment 'Gurl, you is so chill!' (no they don't): so you're all 'Sazz? Chill out? Wha!?' (No, you're not). But, you know, even the chillingest of us need to take extra time to chill occasionally (no. You don't).

It's just, I've put all this pressure on myself to be happy and good and do stuff. Like make badges of dogs out of beads and wire (October craft project: check) without really considering about whether or not I enjoyed doing it at the time (in fact, the whole time I was thinking 'I must get this completed just so I can check off October craft project'). Just completing a task to tick the box rather than living for the moment and doing something I want to do because I want to do it. As a result I have not been feeling very present in the present. I'm living for the future version of my self that doesn't yet exist (and probs never will) rather than worrying about whether the me right now is having a good time.

It's such a difficult balance to strike though because eventually you MIGHT end up doing nothing as there is the distinct possibility that the natural impulse to create (whatever it might be: opera, novel, dog badge) never strikes so you end up stagnant and sitting and watching RuPauls Drag Race just to fill the slow hours before reaching your inevitable death. BUT! PARADOX! I've ended up doing that anyway because I've put so much pressure on myself to fill my time and be productive that it's caused me to flap my arms really really fast - rather than do whatever I was meant to do according to the list system - and fall into a deep dark hole of depression whenever I get to Wednesday (or whatever) and am still a week or so behind on everything I wanted to have got done. I thought by forcing myself to do all this weird shit I was giving myself what I needed but I think, on reflection, all I've done is set myself up to fail. I'm loathe to completely disband the list system though as it gives me a sense of structure and purpose that I find lacking within my being in the normal order of things. It's a quandary for sure: How do I keep one eye on the future, one eye on the past, and keep my feet in the present? It's like my soul is playing metaphorical Twister and is just as bad at it as my body is at the physical Twister.

Anyway, here's the dog badge that's caused this week's existential crisis. Look at him sparkle, look at him shine.

He does, at least, have a nice smile.

Tru Dat

'It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are'
e. e. cummings; poet, painter, total dudemeister

So yeah, jeez, ok, alright. I'm 27 now.

I'm not one who fears getting older. In fact, in a weird way, I've always kind of looked forward to it. I never felt 'right' as a kid. Something was always a bit off in a way I was never able to articulate. I think, looking back, it was just that being older than your years has significant drawbacks. It's a cruel trick of nature that the ones who feel most deeply will always have a rough deal - those sensitive, artistic, shy, clever children that phone up Classic FM to request Elgar for their mum will never fit in. Fact. It will take years and years to work out that it doesn't matter that they don't fit in because no-one does really (just some people are better at hiding it) when all you're taught as a child (by everyone! Peers, teachers, parents, tv) is how important it is to fit in. Anyway, now I'm no longer an old soul in a young body. My body is starting to catch up.

Twenty-seven was always the age is my head when I needed to start getting my shit together with the view that I would have everything tied up in neat little packages by the time I was 30. That was always, always the plan ('The Plan' is everything). Twenty-seven always seemed, not old, but the time when you should start Corinthians-ing it up: When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

I am fully supportive of anyone being a total asshole up to and including the age of 25, you then have a years grace period once aged 26 to learn how not to be a total asshole anymore (check. Ish) but after that it's destination Adult Central, baby. Population: You. Because of this, 27 has always seemed a bigger milestone to me than 25 ever did. I did go a little loopy when I hit that marker though for reasons twofold:
1) I am me
2) Quarter of a century? That's O-L-D
But then I got there and nothing seemed very different. Which has always been the case thus far, you open your eyes on the anniversary of the day you were pushed into the world screaming and covered in gross, and nothing seems greatly different. Change either bashes you over the head and forces you to accept it or creeps up slowly and in tiny little increments makes you a different person year on year in ways you will never really be able to acknowledge. There are some that claim we never really change, that we are doomed to live out our lives in a twirling repeat upon repeat of mistakes we have always made and will always make. To those people I say this: Groundhog Day is an instructional video, not just an enjoyable movie with Bill Murray committing suicide in amusing ways and getting slapped a lot by Andie McDowell (as in: he has to make every mistake possible, sometimes more than once, but does eventually learn from those mistakes and changes significantly enough so that only then is he allowed to move forward. Which is what we all have to do. Though the desire to change for changes' sake - not romantic, material gain - is what galvanizes that forward motion and is only made possible because he literally has no other fucking choice. So maybe those people are right - no-one ever does change - UNLESS, of course, there's really no other viable option).

I digress. This is the year that I was supposed to be doing the job of my dreams (check. Ish. Still holding out for Dakota Clown College), the year I get my own place to live (gimme till May - I'm working on it), the year when I meet my Barack Obama (I am still holding out hope him and Michelle will adopt me. They appear to have the perfect relationship), and generally start getting my ducks in a row. It may be because of the pressure I have always put on this mystical age but I woke up on the day I turned 27 and felt, for the first time ever on a birthday, different from the day before. Different how? Hard to say. Taller? Maybe just my back was a littler straighter. Stronger? Maybe the burdens I've been carrying fell away a little. More solid? Maybe all that cake has had more of an effect than I would like (Truth). But all in all what I do know is that it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. Maybe it's just that I now have that courage.

Tick box

At the moment (read: 'literally within the last two days') I am obsessed with Demetri Martin. I do this thing a lot where I find something I really like and then I'll research it endlessly and try and cater to that void in my soul where I need as much information as possible about the obsession at hand (the tv show Glee and the writer David Foster Wallace have been the most recent subjects of this bizarre mental condition I seem to have. I think it's the remnants of when I was a semi-professional stalker of crushes*). I'll start at the Wikipedia or IMDb page depending upon what category of entertainment it falls in to (it will always fall into a category of entertainment of some kind. I have yet to develop this disorder in relation to car gear boxes or horse riding or something) (though I'm sure those things can be extremely entertaining) and then work outwards from there, linking to interviews, biographies, pictures, character assassinations, who they are dating etc etc. What I then do is work out how similar (or, usually) dissimilar my life is, to the life the object of my obsession has had. How did they start their career? Where did they get the idea for the tv show/book/film from? What did they do before they [insert thing of note here]?

I find it comforting and depressing in the same measure. What I have learned is that most of these people started off normal (as in, they could have been your neighbour or work colleague at some point rather than 'pretty mentally stable' - in that case of 'normal' it is usually not in the affirmative in one way or another. They have lived recognisable lives up till a certain point is what I am trying to say). But then, for whatever reason, they decided to stop living recognisable lives and do something they really wanted to do. Stop looking for approval and start making themselves happy or whatever. That's all quite inspiring stuff, except for the part where I know I will probably never get to the crux on my life's journey where I do the tailspin-turn-around-wacky 'I'm moving to Dakota and going to clown college mom!' type manoeuvre.

And, weirdly this has never occurred to me but revelation! light bulb! this is perhaps where my incessant researching starts to make sense: I think I'm looking to collect enough evidence that I could pack up and leave for clown college tomorrow and everything would be ok. Meaning that, maybe, one day, I could be brave enough to follow that life-long dream of becoming a clown in Dakota too. Just like how they all did! Every now and then I will come across something that someone I admire has said when discussing their funny little quirks from their 'pre-Dakota Clown College' lives and it pushes me further along the scale of thinking if they do it why can't I?

Demetri Martin has done this for me today:

At some point I created a point system, like breaking my life down into categories, and then in each category trying to achieve certain things in a week's time. Every Sunday night I would tally up what I had achieved, for a total possible of 35 points. It was mind, body, career, personal management/relationship contribution. It was pretty funny. It was really ambitious in retrospect. The stuff I set out to do each week was pretty much impossible. I kept track of it for 27 weeks. I had a binder in which I actually was consistent for half a year. Every week I'd carry it around with me. I never got 35 points. I never even got close. Years later I found it, and I was like, “Oh my god, this is crazy.” 4 points was my lowest week, and I think 24 was my highest. When I made the system I figured I'd be topping out in the 30s, and once I'm close to my maximum, I'll just bump up each category, I'll just make the goals a little harder. And then that way I can develop a balanced set with the different things that I'm trying to learn how to do. I averaged 11 points out of my own system. So I failed kind of miserably. But the cool thing is that ever since then I haven't really ever been bored. I haven't watched TV since then, and I just never really feel like there isn't something to do. That changed my perspective. So it's like, draw a picture if you're sitting somewhere, or write something down, or write a palindrome. It's just about all the different opportunities in one moment. It changed my perspective on time and creating things.
[Via]

I actually feel kind of embarrassed by the fact that this quotes illustrates exactly where I am right now. I've got this grand 'get shit together before turning 30' plan and it is the most elaborately detailed series of boxes and checks and ticks and numbers and shit. It's insane. I have lieterally broken down every area of my life where I want to achieve something and worked out to the day what I have to achieve. This data is then inputted onto a monthly spreadsheet so I can make sure I'm on target. Even things like 'finish 4 books a month', 'see 6 plays a year', 'complete one craft project a month' is planned and logged and ticked and checked and calibrated (maybe not the last one). Anyway, every now and then I have a 'what the fuck am I doing this shit for?' moment and finding this Demetri quote just made it all better for me. He has made my mental illness ok. Gay Beatles can do that for you. (And it is true, from devising this system it has ensured I am now never bored).

The only difference between us is that I'm actually doing quite well at achieving all my goals. Maybe it won't be that long before you see me ride past on a unicycle with a rainbow wig on after all.



*Chloe was my guru in this field of study and remains the only true professional I've ever had the pleasure to observe in the art of stalking. One particular amazing experience left me breathless with wonder: We stepped inside the Psycholigy admin office and she proceeded to engage the clueless admin lady in the most inane yet captivating conversation whilst slyly scanning the walls which had all the undergrads pics and photos on to find the name of - later we discover complete dickish - object of her affections at that time. It was like watching Mark Slone in action! But in real life, and a girl without a moustache, and stalking a romantic interest not trying to solve a murder. Otherwise - perfect analogy.

To do or not to do

You guys, I really thought I had the procrastination thing licked. Like, I know if there's one thing that won't make me happy as opposed to making me happy it's wasting time when there's shit I need to be doing. And yet here I am, 11:22am - half the day is nearly gone and I'm still in my jimbly-jamblys and googling 'George Lamb girlfriend' just because, well... *looks ashamed* small voice: 'I kinda fancy him'. Actually, I did but then Holy Moly revealed the following (that may or may not be true but I am as susceptible to this stuff as any 20-something raised on a diet of gossip-blogs and Heat magazine):



and then I didn't anymore. Even if he does have salt and pepper hair (it's only since I noticed the salt and pepper hair that I've been in lust) and dresses really well (he really is an excellent dresser).

I also saw what his girlf looks like and ain't no way me competing with that.

Point is, procrastination. I hate it. I can't relax when there's things to do and I haven't done them yet but on the first night of a week off work I got suckered into a two-for-one cocktails deal by a homosexual and then spent more money on alcohol in the world's best ever pub (it really is. People go 'oh that pub, it's the best pub ever' and you're like 'sure, sure it is, people dancing on tables to Guns'n'Roses? That definitely sounds like the best pub ever' and then you go and you're like 'HOLY SHIITE! This is the best pub EVER! There are people dancing on tables to Guns'n'Roses! This is the best!' And there are and they do. It was a Friday night in July and everyone in that place knew all the words to all the songs and everyone was dancing like it was New Years Eve or something. But without the inherent feeling of depression because it wasn't actually New Years Eve. The best). 'Were there loads of poseurs' I was asked after (the death knell for any cool drinking hole in my world) and I said 'no' but, in truth, I have no idea. I was in a drunk bubble. Unless you were within a one meter radius of me and directly within my eye line I didn't see you or have any real notion you existed. That is the power of the drunk bubble. SO, that's an explanation for why I spent Saturday being queasy and watching Barbara Streisand films. Which isn't what I'd had planned for that day. I still have ironing to do, a shower to take, a yoga dvd to put on and maybe do (I probably won't do), paintings to paint (I gave my bedroom a spruce and covered the walls in bright yellow as a sort of physical manifestation of the internal changes I've gone through of me moving on and doing better and so I'm left with this gap where I pre-planned two paintings whilst seemingly forgetting that at some point I would have to do some actual painting of the canvases), I have my accounts to do (for real yo) but I'm not doing any it. I'm here, talking about it. Might as well finish off watching 'What's Up, Doc?' I guess. Babs is smokin' in this one.

Would Like to Meet

I totally joined match.com.

Stop looking at me like that.

So, you know how I was in love and all googly-eyed and annoying? Well, yeah, my heart has been smashed into a thousand tiny pieces like everyone predicted it would be (though in an infinitely more fucked up way than anyone could have imagined). I mean, there's been no official announcement or conversation to this effect but when the last words you say to someone are 'if you're going to throw up do it in the toilet or the bin but not on the floor' and stalk off to your hetero-life partner's pad to knit and watch movies instead of looking after the person doing the spewing then that means it's over right? And when his last communication with you is 'I may die' via a text message, that's basically the selfish alcoholic version of 'you're dumped btw' right?

Right.

Tip of the day: Do not fall in love with terminal fuck ups, however tempting it may be and however much it may piss off your moms.

So yeah, less than a week later I joined match.com. Too soon? I don't care. I want to be over this debacle quick smart and, ironically, the eternal single gal found out something really rather odd... I like being in a relationship. STOP PRESS! I mean, I didn't like the whiny, self-pitying, selfish aspects of my last partner (apparently that comes with the territory of being an alcoholic-in-recovery-oh-whoops-not-so-much) but I did like the snuggling and the sassing. I did like sharing all my deep dark secrets and the long conversations about nothing. I did feeling like I might burst when I hadn't seen him for a while and then the release when we were together again.

So sue me. I know I'm a total girl.

I want that again and I want it to last.

I have to say the whole internet dating thing (the entire day I have devoted to it thus far) is a little depressing because I just don't think I'm going to find someone I fancy and respect and love and want to be with as much as I did the other guy but I've sent some funny emails and had some in return. That's never a bad thing. I'm doubtful as to whether I'm actually going to meet anyone though. For one thing, my other coping strategy in times of woe is making endless lists and tick boxes for those lists. I have too much stuff to do. Like knitting rectangles (it was supposed to be a scarf but I made it too wide and it's too narrow to be a blanket so... I'm knitting a rectangle). This is important work I have to do here, completing arbitrary tasks for the express purpose of ticking a box. Someone has to do it, might as well be me.

Groundhog Day

I have a big issue dealing with reality. This is in no part helped along by the fact that I have a very vivid imagination. One that runs wild constantly. Everything in my life has to be done as part of an adventure, or to move the story along, or allows me to take the starring role in the film of my life (more and more I find myself framing the shots, deciding on the camera angles, thinking about what the titles will look like, and working out the soundtrack. Which is worrying to say the least). I’m starting to get the sense that this kind of approach to life may cushion things that I don’t really want to deal with but is perhaps PERHAPS a touch counter-productive. This all became clear at the weekend when it finally dawned on me that fantasyland may be safe and pretty but, in the end, spending all my time there is not really beneficial to anyone – least of all myself.

This has kind of meant that for the last few days I’ve felt utterly lost, I now recognise that that feeling had been simmering for a while but events of the weekend brought it all to the surface. Some expectations I’d had about my future life were cruelly dashed and although I’m quite happy with what now exists in place of those girlish fantasies, it still takes a while for your thinking to readjust and for you to reach a point of equilibrium once more. So yes, although I recognise what just happened was not the motivating factor in my newly reacquired quarterlife crisis, it has lead me to face up to the fact that I just don’t know where I’m going. For one thing I’m seriously behind on all the things I laid out on ‘The List’. The list for me was a document that provoked a feeling that I imagine religious types get from the Torah, or the Qur'an, or the Bible, or Gemma Atkinson gets from Heat magazine. I had complete faith in what was expressed upon its pages. All I needed to do to find myself in a happy and fulfilling life was to follow the guidance therein. And then? And then, December appeared. Seemingly from out of nowhere. It creeped up behind me and tapped me on the left shoulder before moving very quickly to the right so that when I turned around I didn’t see who was trying to get my attention. It then of course couldn’t hide its mirth any longer and made itself known whilst bent double and wiping tears of laughter from its eyes. I just stood there raising an eyebrow and looking a bit unimpressed. It knows I have rage blackouts. Why’s it gots to play me like that? But still, we moved on, went for a drink and then found ourselves in the pub pretty much constantly from that moment on. Every time I made a move to go my favourite song would come on the jukebox, or December would kindly offer me another round, or a group of other people that December knew would come along and we’d end up having philosophical discussions about validity of Gene Hunt et al being brought back for Ashes to Ashes and whether Britney deserved to keep her kids. The important things you know?

Basically I was firmly ensconced in Socialbutterflytown with no hope of escape. However, it was all justifiable as I knew that when New Years was done with I could return to my compound. My deliciously safe compound where I get to be left alone and focus on the important things in life – me and me. But then January decided it was time to shake loose a little. It had spent too much of the past being all stuffy and uptight and just needed to go with the flow man. Thus, as December bid me adieu, tipped his hat and left in a cloud of smoke and intrigue so came along January bouncing up and down and asking if I wanted to do tequilia shots. Err… no January. You and I have a very specific routine wherein you neither force me to talk, nor leave the house unless I run out of food or alcohol. But it insisted; ‘Oh come on, I thought you were cool??’ Ahh, my one weakness: attacks on my ‘21st Century-Fonzy’ crown (in fact, I jest, but the last time that was uttered seriously it did in fact work and I let an ex smoke in my bedroom even though my mum expressly forbids it. I was a little younger than now but by no means young enough that you could explain it away as youthful naivety. So basically yeah, I’m lame). So I stayed out with January who was looking a little dishevelled and obviously needed to just go home and rest but was insistent that He could handle the party lifestyle. I tried reason, I tried shouting, I tried throwing something shiny out of the window in the hope of getting enough distraction time to make my escape. All to no avail. January would not let me rest. We were going to party and we were going to do it right. Having an inability to say no and a tendency towards going with the flow meant I eventually just shrugged and went with it. February would sort me out I reasoned, and in the meantime it meant I got to flex my hostess skills. I increased my meal repertoire for guests from one dish to about five. I got to replenish people’s drinks, teach people how to Guitar Hero, arrange taxi’s, collect people from train stations, make sure people had clean bed linen, all those little things that make the difference between going to someone’s house and being a guest in someone’s house (in my mind’s eye I do all these things whilst adorned in a hoop skirt, retro cardi, and a gingham pinny with my hair in a ‘up-do’ ala Doris Day but I think that may be the over-active imagination coming in to play again). This is normally the stuff that ‘me’ runs scared from ‘cos it’s like, responsible and sociable. These are not words that I use in conjunction to myself. But I enjoyed it. Plus I knew February would be here soon. God bless dependable February. February has been around the block a few too many times and is far too world-weary for any kind of shenanigans. February just wants you to SHUT UP! Jeez! Sit down. There. That’s better right? Cup of tea? Yeah? Ok good. Now let’s just be quiet and rest ok? February’s got a headache and just needs you to shush.

This is what I was guaranteed. I felt sure of it. Ok, January made me a month behind on ‘The List’ but AS SOON as February got here I knew I’d be able to start getting things done again. However, we’re now a week into February and time keeps drip, drip, dripping away. I’m too tired (slash emotionally exhausted from aforementioned weekend japes) to do anything useful with my time. Monday PERSISTS on turning into Tuesday which is ADAMENT it wants to become Wednesday and so on and so forth. All the while I have books left unread, stories left unwritten, and correspondence unreturned. I need some way of pulling time up a bit. If the universe could just give me a week on pause I know I could get some pretty darn good catch up sessions going. As it is I get home from work, eat dinner, watch a Come Dine With Me and then all of a sudden wake up the next morning to find myself repeating the whole process again. It’s Groundhog Day but I’m not learning the piano or buying insurance from Kirstin’s dad out of Heroes or finding increasingly amusing ways to commit suicide. I’m just letting that time keep dripping. If anyone knows a good ‘time plumber’ I’d be truly grateful. But maybe this is where I need to stop wishing for a fix and just… you know, do what I gotta do. Can I be that girl? Watch this space. [Not literally].