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I have two names: Really & Seriously.

April 28, 2012

I’m not a lonely guy, this is not a lament.  The facts are merely as they stand.  I am alone since this girl left me at the beginning of the year.  There have been ups and downs, sure.  I’m straightening myself out.  There’s always something to be said for strips of solitude in one’s life, anyway, helps you focus on your mores and habits, get your gaze set dead level.  Like a recalibration of the self – a healing.

As long as you don’t medicate yourself, of course.  Bloody hell!, that was the worst bought of mania I’ve suffered under in at least a few years.  The demon in the soul and the grain spirits amplify each other until any finer parts are trampled over.  So I’m clicking my crossed fingers and clacking my heels that I’ve made it through intact.  Swerving wide of the drink has saved me.

I’ve taken up one of the bagel shops on Brick Lane, mouthwash, wearing my hair short.  The plan for this Saturday afternoon is to shoot out to town via the Manor Park library.  My quarry? – one collection of Calvino stories.  Then I plan on willing the sun to burn itself out from behind the clouds while I have a tour of Hampstead Heath.  If I do this all by myself, it is merely because I have been a toxic person in the past and I am still realigning my self.

For instance, late last month I had an old friend come and visit the city while her husband was on business.  I met up with them and had a great re-introduction, I had only started drinking a few nights prior, had a few glasses of wine and a late walkabout.  By the end of their trip, I was blowing off plans with them to lie in bed and drink all day.  When I was around them, I was very conscious of my behaviour and in an attempt to loosen up drank steadily.  I don’t think I was the best guide to the city, I remember the couple tussling together in a comfortingly American way on the Central line platform over how important it was to see the British Museum that very day.  I felt at the time as if it were my place to deflate the confrontation, now I can see in hindsight that it was probably all my fault in the first place.

Here’s the Sunday roast I had at three in the afternoon at the Mason & Taylor:

His first Sunday roast EVER

Please notice that yes, I am indeed intoxicated by the time this photo I ask for this photo to be taken.

Let me also note at this time that I am not expressing apologetics or looking to be forgiven.  Such weaknesses are luxuries not to be afforded by one so ‘umble as me.  It’s merely the fact that I was expressing a good deal of pain in the most awkward and compromisingly shitty ways.  Other, worse stories abound from this time period, but I suspect the melodrama is too repulsive.  Really, seriously.

****

UPDATE

I did not make it to the hills of the Heath – the rain was interminable, so I walked across the river and sat in the top floor of the Festival Hall overlooking her swollen currents tossing about in the drizzle.  I read and thought of a few of my youthful adventures.  Already home now, readying supper.

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From → Diary ah?

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