Yesterday I commented on a friend’s Facebook post that my History teacher used to write, ‘Don’t Invent History’ across my exercise book. (I remember one time when I was talking about a couple of Kings, then realised they were the same person, so had one kill the other 🙂 ) I couldn’t remember facts but loved detail. I’ve just realised I spend my life doing just what I was told not to do 🙂 Sorry Miss O’Donnell..I let you down quite badly.
This is what I’ve done today: eaten chips, eaten sandwiches, eaten more chips…drunk wine, drunk beer….walked miles with dogs to get locusts from pet shop for gecko but they’d run out…faffed on face book… felt sad , .. felt a bit shit..quite liked some people..liked some animals enormously..wondered if my life is going down the drain…
I can’t do sums. Just can’t. I’m able to do a vague approximation, and I remember that bit at school, where we approximated the answer first, so when we then ‘Did it Right’ we knew we had ‘Got it Right.’ I never ‘Got it right.’
When I was training as a dancer, I got a summer job in a pub, and this was long before anyone could tap ‘vodka’ into an automated till and it does the maths. We did the maths, in our heads. So the bigger the round the more ‘wildly approximate’ my totting up was. I only got caught out when someone ordered the same round and questioned why it was a different price than half an hour earlier.
I was eighteen, in a denim mini skirt and a big smile. I didn’t get the sack. I got huge tips. Not tits. I didn’t have those.
Just found my missing wine glass in the garden. When I say wine glass I mean tumbler. When I say garden I mean yard. Considering the dogs have raced around there for the last few days it’s a miracle it’s unbroken. There was some liquid in, but no idea if it was old white wine or Noodle piss. Trying to give up booze yet again. Putting £3 a day in a jar to save up for Things.
Today was Bollocky Bollox..but I just remembered the good thing: 4 Budweiser down to £3 in Sainsbury .that were TWIST CAP OPEN…not only is this good for anyone who doesn’t carry a bottle opener around with them (I’ve been known to ) ..BUT it means those people who casually open their beers by hand on Sons of Anarchy etc..probably had TWIST CAP OPEN bottles. I feel less of a wuss now..because I’ve always just bled when I’ve tried to do it. it’s like striking a match on the ass of your jeans..doesn’t work with safety matches. When I was a teen, my claim to fame was rolling a spliff with one hand while holding the waist of a motor cyclist with the other… on a bike I mean..not strolling down the High Street…….
It might be hard to believe, for people who google everything especially, but despite my diagnosis of schizophrenia, I’ve never looked up to see what it means. Nor read the pamphlets I’ve given over the years to explain it. I know the stereotypical notion, that’s no longer mentioned in politically correct land. I know saying politically correct is frowned upon by people who want to exclude you, and add trigger warnings. It’s very 80’s. Well I’m very 80’s. That’s how it works. The things you fight for and believe in when you are young stick like glue. In the 80’s we couldn’t band together online; we banded together in person. My friends considered me ‘nuts’ ‘crazy’ ‘mad’ but still loved me.
The stereotypical notion was ‘split personality’ and that is considered wrong and inaccurate. But speaking from where I am, it’s fairly accurate. There are 2 of me. One Kaz who has over the years danced, painted, sculpted, taught, written…..yes finished writing books. submitted poems and got them published. read on stages. Danced on stages. Made friends. Had partners and a child. Driven motorbikes and cars. Visited many countries, hitched, blagged, loved,and enjoyed.
Then there is this other Kaz, who hears voices that no one else does, sees roads ripple in front of her, and houses crumble when she walks down the street. So she doesn’t walk down the street. Or talk to people, because she has no idea what will come out of her mouth. And who feels extreme pain when she has to look at someone, speak to someone. Even in a shop for 30 seconds. Who fights every day not to lie down in traffic, or throw herself off the edge of something. Who doesn’t think anything is real, and if it’s real, why does the ending keep changing. And why can nobody see what I see? Hear what I see?
Yesterday I spent a merry eight hours writing/editing Book 3, working title Treading Water. Maybe the title has proved prophetic, because at the end of 8 hours the edited version of the book, which I saved as I went along, on computer and USB, had mysteriously vanished, gone, been swallowed into a parallel universe. At times like these I wonder if I’m going completely mad. After throwing things, kicking things and screaming fit to waken the student neighbours from their afternoon recovery period, I took deep breaths and edited again. This time it took three hours. Which means something. Can’t say what though.
I’m going to get a lot more work done and sort out a lot more life if I manage to stay off FB. My blog is a one way conversation, like Twitter. But flats to find, and books to be written, (even if they have an audience of a dozen) so needs must.
September spooks me; it always has. As a kid who couldn’t stand school, being cooped up in a classroom, being fed maths instead of being down the river or in the sand hills, September was like the shutters coming down.
When it was dark for so many hours of the day, and I had to be home when it started to go dark, it was a prison sentence. I didn’t like being home. I liked being outside. I still go outside when I’m panicking about something.
When my son was very young I started to be okay with September. I had a partner; not his father of course, that would be too simple. I had a girlfriend for four years, and she liked cooking and travelling, and we went to Greece, America, all over Ireland, Scotland. I bought a big Morris Oxford Saloon for 500 Quid, had a garden in my Peckham flat, and September was like any other month; until my son started school.
September didn’t haunt me again until my son left home, and I was living alone.
Cooking isn’t my strong point; I’m a pizza and oven chips sort of woman. But I cook for my dogs, Noodles and Chicken, because rice, meat and veg is good for them. I don’t eat many vitamins myself; it’s a perverse reaction to my mum’s obsession with ‘eating right,’ throughout my childhood. So I ‘eat wrong.’
It’s easy to burn things, especially rice, which suddenly commits suicide when it seemed to be getting along fine moments before.
Enter Noodles; sick of singed dinner, he’s developed a low persistent growl to warn me the rice is cooked and ready to serve. It’s ready now.