I conquered my face with eyeliner in much the same way that a child conquers paper with crayon, and went out for a walk.
It was great. It was awful.
I don’t understand how people formulate an emotional reaction to anything because isn’t almost everything great and awful? Or is that just the experience of someone with ME, whose every endeavour is shot with threads of failure, pain, and either likely or actual humiliation? Perhaps well people get to have less ambiguous reactions to things.
It was great because I had told myself that I would go up the Hill this morning, and I went up the Hill, and there is nothing I love more than doing a thing I said I would do on the day I said I would do it. No time trials on this occasion – for one thing I haven’t been well enough to get up that hill for absolutely months. For another, I’m five days out of surgery and it STILL feels as if someone accidentally parked the Starship Enterprise sideways in my vag, before executing a really inept five point turn to get out.
It was great because it was a cool day – summer is broken – and the wind blew through the trees’ raggish leaves at the top of the hill, and you could smell their relief: that rest is coming, that sleep is coming.
It was great because of this:
And it was great because when I got to the top I realised that the Hill is mine, now. It’s not his any more. The bench isn’t his. It’s mine. All the soil he trod on has been turned over by the worms, shat on by dogs, grown through by grass and weeds and stamped on by children watching fireworks on bonfire night. All the air he breathed has been blown away. The bench, repainted. And I am remade, down to my bones. None of the person who tried to comfort him still lives. The park, and the figure standing in the park, are mine.
However, my walk was not-great because of the guy who followed me down Four Graces singing at the top of his voice how neither he nor anyone else would ever want me because of my hair colour
… and it was not great (the two are connected) because by the time he appeared on the scene the bones in my left foot had slipped badly out of position (I’ve re-broken it five times, it is now apt to go wrong randomly), and I was in considerable pain walking and could not speed up to get away from him, so I had to hobble along thinking “fuck you, I’m bleeding and limping and smaller than you, and I hate that you make me feel that, when all I did was come out to try to make myself a little stronger. Also, had I mentioned?: fuck you.”
But realistically he was of no more account than any other herring in the shoal of hooting dickheads that apparently represent men in public places.
I got home and did my post. We’re talking about a stack approximately a foot high.
And then I bought a new fridge because my old one is widdling on the kitchen floor. And then I phoned the window man for a quote for my cold guest room’s pair of massive windows. And then I called the builder for a quote for re-casting the hall floor and big sexy cast rads, and re-flooring the whole joint, and various other jobs.
I’ve got my teeth back in the world’s neck again. Can I hold it this time? I’ve been at this stage time and again and I get it wrong and drop off and get a bit trampled. But I am never, never going to stop until I am back on top of … everything … again.