Today I woke up defiant.
Clamping the eyes shut after last night's late movie on SBS (The Birthday, Swedish, e-recommended)
I slept, the best in 2 weeks, and all thanks to a hearty dose of Cortisone.
I woke before the alarm went off.
Waiting for the water to be of non-shocking temperature (A ritual now, no matter how drunk, tired, drowsy. I had insisted on getting a two-valve mixer, instead of the more convenient single lever mixer. I called it aesthetic beauty, I feel that the single mixer is very late-80s.)
I contemplated-
About work, about being right, about pleasing oneself, about what will make my next 30 years in the work-world bearable.
So I turned the water off and went back to bed.
Diagnosis: Boredom
Prescription: Piano lessons
Prognosis: Grim
I felt an urge to do something.
As I was driving to work yesterday
I thought of learning music again.
Twelve years of hour-long classes, ABRSM exams, and arpegios left me hating Scarletti, and resentful that I could not play Ravel or Bach.
Perfect pitch is no good when you can't make music.
***
" It is true that that on bright days we are happy. This is true because the sun on the eyelids effects chemical changes in the body. The sun also diminishes the pupils to pinpricks, letting the light in less. When we can hardly see we are most likely to fall in love. Nothing is commoner in summer than love... "
Lives of Saints, taken from The World and Other Places, Jeanette Winterson.
How does one know when to stop?
I had a thought in my head last night-
As I laid in bed, eyes open, lights out,
It came to me, and I was excited.
I've lost it now,
I couldn't be fucked to turn on the lights, reach for a pen, and write it down.
So I lost the start of something that would have been good.
I'd suck as a writer.
Rage.
It drives you to such lengths.
I kicked the quilt off my toes
I hissed with such contempt.
Eyes filled with white-hot malice.
Last night I dreamt a strange dream.
Driving through Kew in Singapore (the unconscious still flutters between here and there),
To meet M for an iced latte at Starbucks.
After Mr Lim's (manager on site) refusal to lend me any service
There was a loud altercation.
I drove off,
Then drove back again as I was dissatisfied with the lack of resolution.
This time I yelled louder, mad with fury.
When I turned to leave
There was a face I hadn't seen in years.
I never knew him, really.
We never spoke, and he hasn't been on my mind since 1997.
All through the dream he was nameless (I only remembered it in the shower).
He was reclusive, in the chi-chi apartment dad had paid for.
There was a newspaper clipping with his picture "Man sentenced to 6 months for stealing truck".
He cooked chicken in the microwave oven and had a cat.
I stayed the night and forgot to feed Milo (who in the dream, took the form of a silky terrier I had back in Singapore).
A fallen soul, I loved him.
I made all this up in my sleep
For I didn't know him.
I sometimes get a guilt attack.
Floundering between engineered myopia and a seasonal twang of regret.
No, not regret.
I prefer to say weakness.
For months I'd be cruel - in thought and exchange.
Then suddenly I find myself saddened by the sight of the figure standing below a classic early 90's kitchen downlight, hands in motion, mind lost elsewhere.
Like the 'I still call Australia home' tune, this makes me want to cry.
Spring has vanished.
This time last year I made (too) regular visits to the gelati shop on Lygon St.
Lemon sorbet will be my colour for summer.
I own:
(1) 3 hair-ties
(2) 1 floral print, butterfly-sleeved dress (bargain for USD$14 at H & M)
in that colour.
What happened to the 18 degrees and fine weather they promised this morning?