May 13, 2011

not working

I've wanted to write this essay this I first read Woman On The Edge Of Time in my midteens. Now it's due in 2 weeks I cant face it. I know I will get something together, but I can't see it doing well. I've struggled with too much with this course. It comes and goes so much, the will to study. Summer fever of course, the will be anywhere but here, inside, as usual. There's been no poems and little thought of them. Just napping, and some sighing. Happy with wee man, except for the 'they're going to take him away fear'. He said 'its a secret' a few times over the last few days when I've asked him about nursery. I get the feeling they have concerns, or rather they know the social worker does. There is one in particular who rarely smiles, she gives me horrid chills. There is always that knowledge, that if I knew something was going on, if I saw it in front of me. Talking about it would just make things worse because of the delusional disorder diagnoses. Law centre, I think its a phone call I can make.

It good it would be to be in a dingy basement club. Inhibitions desolving in the heat, darkness and beats. When I could let go and let my body do what its made for, move. It would take so little, or nothing. A lungs worth of weed or a couple swigs of beer, I could feel the pills in everyone around me and need nothing else. I've so much of what I've always wanted. When things went well I used to dream about just scraping by. The pleasure you get from something you probably can't afford. The joy of turning a space that someone else had to get away from into somewhere I want and need to be. There is a sense of self worth in just getting by that isn't their when everything is a phonecall away. Of course there is a self love in being always comfortable you can't get on benefits. I guess it was the honesty, the simplicity that I fantasied about, reality isn't quite as charming. Not that am quite at the point where turning the key is taken for granted, or the taps, lights, cooker, hot water. Just that I wish I kept everything more perfect, that the toothbrushing, inhaler taking, and food buying wasn't such a chore. And of course it would be much easier of all that shit in the past just hadn't happened.

Not rationalising the diagnosis like I was. I'm too bastard sensitive to be told by a pair of semi-educated hegenomic tools that what I am is a delusion. I can't let that into my home and try and control sonshine when he starts chucking toys at them because he doesn't know why they are ignoring his mum's pain. Dispite all the moaning the light is hitting home.

I do wish there was more people around to share it all with. But the boundries feel like oceans. My nose is stuck too firmly in the air, no one is good enough and I'm too fucked up for ok sometimes to be a good idea. That must be him now, too tired for singing.
Spoke too soon. Surely know, the lights off, he's quiet. He has no option. Sleep.
He's such a wuss, hides from the boys, but it just makes him even more attractive to some of the girls.

Ahh to eat protein or not. That philosophy vegatarian essay hasn't helped, but the free speech/pornography didn't help much either. But I am getting something from it. I know their is a moral higher ground in not eating meat unless you know where it comes from. There is always a personal higher ground in knowing that your prorities are to yourself and the little one and not ever wondering if thats right.

soo, whats the problem, Piercy, Baker. Why the book fear? Too close to home but thats an old excuse isn't valid any because I wont study if it means nothing to me. Of exposing, or giving myself away for nothing maybe. But I wouldn't be doing it is I thought academic qualifacations and letters after my name are meaningless. It's simple, Barker is clinical excellence, Piercy is art because it is dynamic and not stuck in the past that is doomed to keep repeating its self as long as no alternative is envisioned.