I think it’s all because I can’t play chess. I have the kind of brain that can’t think ahead.
I want what I want in the moment I want it. So what if (googles frantically) in two moves from now my king will be nakedly alone, on the brink of kidnap? (Not quite how google described it.) For starters, I’m anti-monarchy, and second of all: it hasn’t happened yet, and hence it isn’t life, it isn’t real, it isn’t now. The only thing actually ever happening is NOW. So whatever I want, in the here and now, I’ll just bloody do: and I won’t just bloody do it, I’ll bloody launch myself at it, body and soul, like a bottle of champers launching a ship and it’s no surprise, I suppose, that I often (usually) end up smashed.
It’s the reason I have no ambition, not properly. Someone described me as cat-like a couple of weeks ago (possibly because I’m hairy and love to nap) and, like cats, all I live for are moments of pleasure. Which makes me sound horribly decadent (very hard to be horribly decadent on a low income) and brings to mind something like this:
which is far from the truth. But I do need to keep inhaling happy things to keep me going. Not opium, obviously. But small, nice things. A yellow moon, a compliment, a new lick of nail polish, a perfect sentence. I look for little pleasures every day. The big pleasures are harder to come by. (Or, well, easier, if you… sorry. Smut alert.)
When someone you thought was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious decides to take a swift exit from your life, untouched and unruffled by any aspect of your existence in a way that makes you realise, ouch, you didn’t even leave behind a tiny scuff mark, never mind a hole… it’s sad and disappointing, of course it is. But the thing to do is not regret that you did it. Try not to. At the very least I have a new memory for when I’m old and grey(er) and possibly living on memories (of this nature) the way my poor dad is.
I have a hopeful sort of soul these days. It was hard and fierce and cross a year ago, and it might be forced to harden up again, who knows, if it keeps getting smashed on the sides of ships. At the moment, in light of its recent smashing, it’s trying to calcify and shrink-wrap itself, right now as I write, because it’s scary to let yourself hope for things. I am horribly, stupidly fragile: I sink myself into the moment and nothing else even exists anymore, and that means I get squished when the moment is gone. (It’s a useful technique, though, when you’re reading in public: just live in the words, and you won’t even notice the hundred staring eyes.) But I’m also (I think) pretty strong. So I’m stragile. Or maybe frong. I’ll wobble, but I won’t fall down.
So even though the Voice of Reason (yes, I have one) is wagging its finger at me for writing this blog post, because come on, Lynsey, WTF, this is all under your own name and why didn’t you set up this site anonymously, because that would have been far more sensible, I’m going to write it, and publish it, anyway, because IDC, as people say on the internet. It’s something I want to do. I don’t mind exposing my insides (although, stupidly, I haven’t been swimming for about two years because I loathe my scarred legs).
I can’t write anything decent or worthwhile that doesn’t expose me somehow. I want to live bravely and not let my fears or anxieties control me. I think this is more important to me than short-term embarrassment. I want to be a force for good somehow. I don’t know any other way for me to do it except by speaking out about things. And it helps me, too, to write and share: you’ll have noticed by now, if you follow this blog, that I’m fighting a couple of tiny battles these days: the first against the Inspiration Trust; the second against the pesky, melancholic nature I grew up with. Hence, all of my dirty washing is here, on this blog: and if any of it, that I’ve shared, can help you feel solidarity with another human being then, honestly, it’s worth it to me. Helping people helps me too.
So this is what I say to being sensible, and careful, and cautious:
[Literally my favourite ever sentence… 1.21 if it doesn’t do what it should and start there automatically. NSFW!]
And while I’m posting videos, here’s a short film by Percivale Productions about our school campaign, with clips of yours truly not a million miles from a microphone, which is (strangely) a place I’ve found I’m kinda happy being, although watching myself on screen is a much less happy experience. C’est la vie!
And now I reckon, gauntlet down, my challenge to myself this week is to get my bikini on and go swimming. Scars and all.