Beautiful day yesterday. Just after noon the sun was high enough to feel warm on me as well as blinding. I walked into the village, and with an unexpected twenty minutes to kill went into the library. There I find a sign from the Marsby Historical Society that Charles Weston, who has an IMDb entry but not one on Wikipedia, made films in Marsby at the start of the century, including shots of the High st, still recognisable in places. IMDb tells me that he killed himself having been unable to get work even as a strike-breaker.
The librarian has a short sleeved top and heavily tattooed forearms, surely showing that tattoos have completely lost all edginess whatever. She said hello as I went in, and though I felt uncomfortable in the heat, not needing my sweater, I said hello back, then admired the beauty of the children’s section. Those low book boxes reminded me of similar displays at Gartcosh Carnegie library: I had a sudden feeling of sitting on the floor, and how big and exciting they had been.
Beautiful day yesterday, dreich day today, but I was thinking of this post before being cheered up by the sunshine. My year has been unused, which is not good. I stopped volunteering at CAB last November, and have skulked around the house, mostly, since then. The blog has been my main activity. My resources have depleted, my CV got more ridiculous, and I have hidden away, not even getting emotional as much as I had, as I have excluded emotional stimuli.
I have not particularly grown in self-knowledge or self-acceptance. I still have the internal war between nagging myself and answering sulkily don wannoo. Then I thought, today, it is a failure of imagination: I cannot see how I can improve my lot, however much I dislike where I am, however lonely I am.
“It’s a horrible, incomprehensible world and I want nothing to do with it.” Mmm. Play with that a moment. I do not want it to be true. I think it untrue: I have no reason to call that librarian “horrible”, though my discovery that the Straights were as screwed up and ashamed about sex as us queers can be was. And- various things I have moaned about here before.
Kneel in the ritual space. I am doing this irregularly at the moment. I need a handkerchief, I might cry, though I am not doing that much either. I count breaths noticing my tendons are tight, but feel relaxed. After I stop counting, my reverie turns to saying something sweet, and the person asked if I was being sarcastic. Had I been, I would have been being particularly mean: I cannot now remember the context. That frees me to weep. Before, I had had the thought that weeping does no good. I am so concerned at one instance of miscommunication, where I am good with words; and while some people call me intelligent, I do not appear so to myself. One is good at the things one is most concerned about: perhaps my spurs and whip really benefit me.
All comment’s welcome!