Arriving home in tears, clutching an absurdly large pizza box (full), after sitting on the bus (full) next to various Wellingtonians who all would have appreciated more elbow space than my pizza permitted. Some foodstuffs just aren’t destined for public transport. It was dark (of course, June, poorly laid plans) and the buying of this ridiculously large pizza seemed like a kind of self-flagellating binge – go buy this giant pizza, and then cry about the fact that you have to eat it buy yourself, because there is nobody to share it with. The judgement and raised eyebrow of another person would have helped, perhaps, then voluntary consumption of a slice on their behalf – save you from yourself (god knows that needs doing). But no lights and no faces, a hollow house, again.
I wrote myself out of it, almost. An evening in front of a screen, closed eyes and recollections. It’s alarming to think that the way to escape is in vegetative television or in reliving memories from the mid-nineties. My imagination runs away, building itself into towers before I can catch up, and I am no match for its solid foundations. Susceptibility to words and numbers – names making me miss things, rather than people. Having someone to cuddle as winter sets in (fiendishly strong), having nieces and nephews to snuggle and read to and fulfil of those impulses that I really ought to not be having for a few years yet. Having someone to just exist with, another presence even when silent.
Now, listening to The Magnetic Fields. Love is Like a Bottle of Gin – sure is. The night of my birthday, I had one gin and tonic, nothing special, my usual concoction / an ex persuaded me to stop drinking them for a while, claiming that gin brought me down / but in combination with life/twenty four years/food it broke me down overnight, on what felt like a cellular level. I tried to get up to get painkillers, but it was half an hour or so before I could sit up and move enough to get to the water and pills. I nearly called an ambulance on several occasions, crying. I didn’t know if I counted as an emergency or not. I have kept tramadol and ondansetron beside my pillow every night since.
So there’s something gin-love-sick related in there. The bottle of gin in my ownership at present is Gordon’s, which was cheap option exchanged for delicate memories. My grandfather’s name was Gordon, and there were Gordon’s Gin boxes used for storage in their basement, which I always giggled at, even though I didn’t really know what gin was. I don’t know who lives in that house now; I wonder what happened to the pool table. Next time I’ll try to pony up the dollars for Bombay Sapphire. Yellow flowers sit so perfectly when it has been emptied.
Back to ‘school’ tomorrow. Missing real-life publishy-stuff already, and the fact that I’m pre-emptively stressing about being stressed it not a good sign in the least. I’m disconcerted by the fact that basically every day I find myself thinking ‘I really just wish I was at work full-time, instead of mere afternoons and Saturdays’. I keep trying to find the energy to write, but it is buried deep, which doesn’t help any of the mood situations. Maybe it will get better. Maybe it won’t. I just know that there is a sense of relief and safety and welcomeness on Willis Street that there isn’t on Dixon. I love publishers, I love wielding the red pen, I just don’t like how much trying to get there is dragging me down.
I reconfigured my room today, so now from my bed I see books rather than my desk – enjoyment rather than work. Maybe this will represent some sort of cosmic mental shift, but I fear that that’s overly optimistic.