Sadly... A Mind Dump💗[06-12-23]
Renaissance in Rhubarb....It's Not Good!🤍x
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6 December 2023
Dear Chasers💗
How many clicks does it take to get to the centre of a page? Can you guess the theme song I originally wanted to accompany this text? I bet you can. Instead I have angel songs pouring into my eardrums as I type because I have changed my mind. I was trying to write with intention. That’s not my forte. I can’t do it.
I like to write from the subconscious mind. I like to write from that baseline. If I had tried to intentionally write (about something sex related or tinged on elements of that song loosely based around the dirty lyrics my taste would have been strongly scrutinised (by me! My worst critic and the only person of whom I am afraid of) like a lady’s tongue licking into a deconstructed cheesecake! EVERYTHING would be completely wrong about it.
I could not and would not do that to myself. I write from the heart. When I try too hard the context is shit the voice sounds too stiff. Quite like my shoulders here. Sitting up in bed propped up by his super hard memory foam pillows that feel like bricks breaking my neck. I find myself getting used to the added support although I daren’t move too quickly in case I snap some vertebrae.
I couldn’t stay in the living room today. I tried and failed miserably. It is a miserable day. My partner is away under pre-foreseen tragic circumstances, this time that we were all aware was incoming, the time we’ve all been dreading. Out of my deepest respect to all concerned I promised myself I would not write about the girl who is dying as I type tonight.
He is taking care of their family dog at their empty house. He’d been drinking beer all night and then got off to bed to sleep in the spare bedroom. All quiet there and too quiet here. I am just getting started on working tonight because all day I have been staring at a blank page forcing myself NOT to write anything about what is going on there. So, surprisingly to me, I actually listened to myself - up until this point.
In the process of not talking about this terrible thing it seems that this thing is the only thing I can think about, feel, contemplate and consider. I can manage to deal but it has all but consumed me. My mind, my vibrations, if not my immediate emotions, the energy and, dare I say it, the entirety of the life force left inside of me, feels drained, and I’m straining to ignore the atmosphere of what would be going on for her and their family.
I can’t say anything more without revealing personal details. It feels unethical, uncouth and unfair to even talk about myself. Yet, here I am about to unravel my thoughts on the page. I hope I can contain and remain disciplined in my discretion. I don’t owe anyone anything by the way. This tight-lipped confessional (eventual essay) is my call only - and I’m not sure even I am going to pick it up!! :-(
I didn’t know that person very well. In fact I knew too much to take an immediate dislike to her many months ago. She almost stole my partner. In my opinion he was given a choice and he chose me. In his opinion, I accuse him of every girl he meets and speaks too. It’s my paranoia and nothing ever happened between them. That’s what he tells me anyway. It’s a bit more complicated now though as she is an integral member of ‘our’ extended family - and again - I need to slow down this leakage of detail but I’m trying to get to the centre of this blank page without giving up again.
I have clicked a new document several times leaving untitled documents to save as themselves for another rainy day maybe. It was becoming silly because in the space of three minutes I had typed forty words, or thereabouts, over four or five different blank pages. Never making it up to or beyond the halfway line.
I couldn’t not respond to my own mind without anything to go on when I am a pantser. Now, people in the publishing world and on the author spectrum (radar?) will know what I am talking about by the pantser. Fuck it, you’ll all know - it’s not rocket science - I write by the seat of my pants. Fucking hell, if I could guess that, what made me think that only authors or publisher’s would know that. Am I Right!
I still write to the imaginary audience of one. Late at night. I try to write to understand myself and sometimes I am so dumb. I feel the need to spell S.H.I.T. O.U.T unnecessarily. At least I’m making progress. In the midst of me digressing, I made it past the target line so now we should be coming onto something worth writing down soon.
My intention is to remove all of this nattering on, from this document, before and if or when it gets published anywhere. Also, I need to find something to derive a title from this before I call it a day. I guess I might try having this as a shitty first draft. Only instead of touching it up and editing later, I’ll just write so much that I can afford to delete a full fucking chapter and verse. WahlaH! Job’s a good’en.
I wanted to tell you all about my experience when living in Essex for about (maximum) 6 weeks - I seriously can’t remember the exact length of time I was there for and usually just round it up to a good six months or so, just to save on the embarrassment. Life’s too short to feel ashamed at this early stage. Plenty of time for that nearer the end. I know these things. I know because… I don’t wish to say. I can’t really be bothered going over the same timeline from Essex again either. I will talk about it one day.
I am alone and it’s 2.23 am “c’mon Chasey you can do better than this… make the most of your time!” It’s so upsetting that for me, I have all the time I need or want - time in abundance tonight as I am alone and not restricted to go to bed whenever I am told or to adhere to the relationship’s routing.
Not tonight or for the next however many weeks are coming. I will be living alone for at least a month or so. It just brought tears to my eyes that tonight, this time, this night - my time is mine and the girl’s time is slipping away, dragging out life, she is dying. Her time is closing in. A stolen life and it’s so fucking maddening!
I know we had our differences. I realise that all of our lives might’ve been so different now had my partner made a different ‘choice’. Let’s just say I am right. He might have been at her hospital bedside tonight. While she has no fight left in her to survive. It destroys me to contemplate her fate.
I don’t mind that she tried to destroy my life. Even if I AM RIGHT. It wasn’t MY LIFE she wanted to touch or tar or ruin. It was my partner’s life that she wanted part of to share and make and continue with him. Life is Life and they say stupid sayings like ‘I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy!’ For a few weeks, she was my worst enemy.
Had I wished this on her?
I don’t know. I don’t remember. None of that matters. All that does matter is that she is dying and I can’t think of anything else. I can’t explain how she is still connected to this family of ‘ours’ without exposing the whole unimaginable story.
I am trying my hardest not to document this other person’s demise, and the only reason why is that I am not qualified to document her life. I wasn’t privy to her life. The parts I featured in are told to me to be delusional, paranoia and to me I have uncertainty.
I am honest enough with myself to know and say that I didn’t know her at all. I don’t want to talk about this but it’s creeping back into my consciousness. I could have drafted something out about life and living, dying and death. Made it generic. No identifying features, but I’m not a storyteller.
I can’t even tell you this without making a mess of it. I am nothing more than my own mental archaeologist… I’m not digging for bones of contention.. I’m scraping the sands of skin and sinew to see if there’s any fragments of soul that I can take back to the lab and investigate. If I’m lucky I can work on reconstructing a life having been lived thereafter. I said it’s a mess. I am a mess.
Is this just a mental mind dump?
Quite possibly it is and to me it doesn’t even matter, not tonight. Nothing so trivial should ever matter on this night. 6 December 2023 - time now is 2.42 am. Out of a sick coincidence, my partner’s mother also died on this date. Nelson Madella died yesterday 5 December back in 2013.
It’s completely unrelated to you and me - the latter's death anniversary. It’s just last night while they were saying final goodbyes and just waiting and waiting… I had been sitting here remembering everything that came into my head and trying to forget everything consuming my soul.. Or so I guess. It’s not good. :-(
I mentioned listening to ANGEL SONGS - to me that was in the form of Aphex Twin’s Rhubarb I also made a rhubard reference somewhere… Oh! My head has gone completely west tonight. PLEASE FORGIVE ME. xxx
Thank you for giving me this feeling of friendship and for want of a better term ‘a safe place to speak’<3 Thank you for being here with me and reading this tonight! BIG soft Warm HUGS Lots of Love from ME..xxx💗
