Unpicking the print. Subjectively objective. Any other kind of objective is illusory. Illusion is all there is.
Mediocrity. Consensus. Each yields the other. Shamefully. Fearfully…
A nipping regret from the mandible of a small terrier. An uneasy likeness… a sharp prod in the intercostals to put my house in order.
Literally and metaphorically.
My home is not actually my house. It is – in the sense that I do live here and that I very often get my own way when it comes to practical household decisions like sawing enormous holes in interior walls and deliberately sourcing furniture which does not match. I’m of the opinion that if nothing matches then nothing ever looks out-of-place, at least no more than anything else. But it’s not actually my house in terms of ownership. I didn’t actually make any of the money that paid the mortgage or that covers the bills or fills the cupboards and the fridge or feeds the plants and replaces the boundary mortar or puts fuel in the SUV that I drive but that I could never actually afford to buy myself. In monetary terms, I’m worth absolutely jack shit. How I functioned practically in the world before I met my husband is something of a mystery to both of us.
In my mind and in my diary I’d earmarked August as this year’s ‘get your shit together’ month. I even managed to get a head start on myself. Before July was out I’d already made it to the optician’s (only twelve months late), lost my new glasses, found them again, lost them again, arranged a surprise family weekend away in the forest (at Dave’s financial expense, obviously) which I successfully managed to keep a secret until the day before and the time had come for everyone to pack; I arranged for the roof to be repointed and the ridge tiles to be replaced and sorted the dog out with a new curved-top, indoor safe space which cannot be utilized as a surface for depositing books, games, keys, laundry and boxes of Lego on. And I quietly got on with the kind of never-ending household chores that are as mind and soul sappingly dull as they are necessary. Domestic Goddessery is not my forte. Dog loves his new den because it’s quiet and cosy. I dig it because it’s shaped like a Teddy bear’s head and is easy to clean.
The deceased Cercis still needs uprooting from out front but the Eucalyptus I intend replacing it with won’t be available from the nursery until late Autumn. A gum tree will hopefully cope better with the NE/SW wind tunnel. I have come to regard the local garden centres as ridiculously expensive arts and crafts houses. Suppliers of lived and living, raw arts and crafts materials. The only places where I find the act of shopping genuinely pleasurable. Wooden handled tools are so much more satisfying to use – feel so much nicer on my palms – than those made of modern polymers.
I had my post procedural gynae consult this month. It wasn’t at all weird or uncomfortable discussing the weather and gardening for wildlife with a stranger whose head popped up from between my knees every now and again. As it happens we’d planted the same fuchsia/petunia/lobelia combo this Summer. What are the chances? Nope, not weird at all.
Dave was hundreds of miles away in Inverness when the letter from Clinical Psychology Services arrived – unexpectedly – so I took to Facebook to process it out loud with folk of a similar and sympathetic ilk. Did I still require the ASD assessment I’d waited two and a half years for? Two and a half years over and above the several months it had initially taken just to get through the primary screening process. What a pile of convoluted crap. I have no need or desire to reprocess all the ins and outs of why I no longer give a flying anything what anyone’s clinical opinion about me might be – not here and now anyway – because there are more pressing matters at hand. I was glad the answering machine took my call. It didn’t question my request to be discharged.
Unlinking links. Remembering why I started blogging in the first place. Giving myself a break. Filtering out the distractions and evaluating by my own lights. Trusting in my own creativity.
And so I finally permit my attention to refocus once again on how best to approach and deal with the SEND and transport departments at the LA now that September is looming larger into view… There’s a wall less than a metre away that I can start banging my head against… Until I eventually lose the benign will to live… or alternatively flip out all psycho bitch…
Here we go (again)…