Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about my cross-dressing but it has developed a great deal since then. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the New Readers' Page above this and the tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Thursday, 13 April 2017

Announcement

On 27 March my third child was born. Tilly was in two operations afterward for minor, but still pretty powerful, stuff and then was in recovery until the Friday that week. I took a second week off from work to support as best I could and, since then, have been primary caregiver for my elder two children. We now have the Girlie, the Boy and Stalin. And, if you know me, you know that Stalin is an affectionate nickname. Tonight I am finally toasting my new arrival with a bottle of Billionaire from Wild Beer Co which is a stout that I have become rather fond of. It's an Imperial too, at 10% ABV, and it tastes like drinking Belgian chocolate topped Millionaire's shortbread.

I wish that I had more detail for you but thems the breaks. It's been busy since, but not necessarily in a bad way. I note, with interest, that the ASD people in the family were mostly fine and directed and that problems do return when we have a NT person back in the mix, but that's a story for another time.

In the meantime I am plagued with strange dreams about work, again, but not my work, if you see what I mean. These sometimes end up surreal, like the walking between classes on high wires or the one where I wasn't prepared for teaching at all and in on my day off or something. And the sometimes veer into the erotic, with the one that included some scenario about being in chastity for some reason or other. Basically, they're all completely odd and probably due to being woken every now and again at night because that's what happens with a newborn with whom I am occasionally called to change nappies.

Even so, this is the first time we have a birth on my blog and so there's that. A third child. A boy child, so far as we know, as the world slowly descends into actual chaos.


Wednesday, 22 March 2017

Logarythmic

Looks enough like the NHS, I love the dotty auntie NHS.

Took a while though.
We move on. Just a short post tonight as I have nothing much to get a cob on about. I do rather paint Tilly badly on here, and I know one person who reads this and knows her would probably agree with me when I say that I don't lie or misconstrue, but I probably paint things blacker than they are. That said, there was a bit of a minor scare today, not connected to the horrendous incident in London (which, thank God, was not worse and that is something given its nature; how do you plan to stop that without removing all freedoms?) whereby I was called away from work to take Tilly to the hospital. Possible complications. There weren't any, but I was called away from work.

These images always befuddle me. Who does that? Is it
paid well?
Despite all my shouting and moaning on here I do know that Tilly is not the type to ring me at work unless things are awful and I am needed. So it was that I left work and helped out. Not much to do, she was stoic, but she does still do rather too much. Walking and busing to Gym with the children yesterday (not like a paying gym, like a class for them to do physical education stuff with trainers and the like - think running around, vaulting, hurdles, tumbles and balance beams) which is a two hour trip. Also walking around town with them both long distances to do errands and the like. Oh, and weeding the garden yesterday. And hoovering every surface in the house for three days straight. And cooking. And washing the bathroom and... you get the idea. She's agreed to try and tone things down now, we're close enough and she's of an age where more rest is required.

Yay for ale.

I may even get to drink it before Easter.
Good things! Someone I know through twitter (yes, I joined there about two years ago) has sent me a hard-to-find US ale for free today. That was nice, and rather unexpected, so I now have a bottle of Founders Breakfast Stout awaiting consumption in the kitchen. It may have to wait a while but that's no biggie for this one. Hard to get in the UK and I've been trying to get hold of some decent Founders stuff after I had their Imperial Stout in the summer at Leeds International Beer Festival. Well, now I have it!

My observation was had way back when and I got feedback yesterday to say that it was the highest grade one can achieve, which is nice. Completely unrealistic, by the way, because I know that the school inspection people would have rated it 'good' - mainly because they base it less on the lesson and more on the evidence and stats over a long period (which wasn't hot enough to warrant anything more than the now standard 'good') - but I'm not complaining. This is not my square to circle and so I'll take the effective pat on the back and move on to pass on the good feels to my colleagues.

It was to Thackray Medical Museum.
Speaking of which, Harry ballsed up the trip yesterday by ordering coaches an hour later than we needed them and we didn't pick up on the error until we were ready to go. I hope that I did not do to them what was done to me when similar balls-ups occurred in my old place, I comforted, assigned no blame and tried to remain chipper, if a little panicked, and blamed no one. I was going to get some ale and wine (for another colleague was also involved and distraught) but haven't had chance yet. Maybe by the end of the week. I can't complain too much (though I will take some smug satisfaction that the day before Harry had been in a foul mood and said, when I realised they'd beaten me to making lists and timetables for the trip, "well, I've got used to you not doing anything" - I thought that a little unfair) as I didn't organise this trip. In short, I hope I was more managerial and supportive than managers have been to me in the past.

My AS allows me to analyse and imitate compassion. Better than nowt.

Right, and now it is bedtime.

Nurses in the NHS are brilliant.

Friday, 17 March 2017

Like a Lemon

See, because I'm not having beer and I don't understand people
and I often end stood or sat like a lemon and she's a woman in
a lemon dress. It's funny.

No beer until after the birth. Not self-imposed but imposed by Tilly because I may have to drive to the hospital and I need to be on point for that, fair enough. However, if we go in the night then I won't have to drive because I can't then drive home after being up all night - or Tilly wouldn't feel safe with me trying - and so we'll get a taxi there and back. After all, can't leave the car parked by the hospital (not to mention the parking charges), and there will have to be around a two hour wait for the doula to get here from another city first anyway unless there's an emergency. I have so many beers at work, so this is a real problem. Luckily I can't drink beer at home in the evening now either because of the driving that I won't do in the night.

Oh, hello, what a lovely dress.

No chance of ever being able to wear such a pretty thing
and so it makes for a safe fantasy that, I hope, does not
objectify women or perpetuate the horrors of pron in the
way that most of the images I post do.
I spoke to Harry and Alice at work today, they were talking date nights and teasing me about the impending arrival of a third child. Harry knows I am not happy about the whole affair. So, they both suggested that I ought to be having date nights where someone comes in and looks after the children and Tilly and I go out together or at least sharing an evening together. And, you know, since Tilly found she was pregnant we did do some of this around Christmas, watching Game of Thrones on different chairs because we can't really sit together to watch things. I don't work hard enough on this, you see, as Tilly will reject advances more often than not and I just have to keep trying. I should be going to bed at the same time as her and I should be hugging her in bed except that I shouldn't be because when I do come to bed I am stressed about work or something or other and she can feel the stress coming off me in waves and it's not comfortable and so why would she want to do more than fend me off? But I should be getting closer if I want to be intimate but not on an evening or in the morning or at any point because she is heavily pregnant and certainly not when she is breast-feeding because there will have been a child crawling all over her and she just wants some time alone. And then there's a book or two that need writing and I can't be interrupting that on an evening because after the children go to bed is the only chance she has to work alone and when she goes to bed she just wants to sleep and there's no chance for intimacy but if I want to be more intimate I should be trying harder like when we go to bed I could try then because she goes to bed and then I don't try to hug her so why should she make an effort to tell me when she wants to have intimacy.

Very pretty dress. I like the yellow. I am a fan
of the colour yellow and, increasingly, feel that
I really missed embracing it as a child.

It's a lovely bag too. I'd prefer a shoulder
strap but, as I shall never actually have the
chance to indulge owning one in our society
I may as well say how much I liked the
fact that the yellow cures cancer.
So, you see, it's my fault that we don't connect on a physical or emotional level because she shouldn't have to tell me when she's open to having these moments and I ought to be able to spot the signs but not if I'm busy or stressed or she's too tired or there's work to be done or the children have been difficult or lovely or a long day and that is also my fault because she can't tell me these things and why don't I ask her about them? But don't ask too much because if it's been a long or hard day or the children have been shits she doesn't really want to go into details and sometimes it would be nice if I didn't come in asking questions. Maybe if I complimented her more then she would know what I was about and she wouldn't be so confused about my intentions but don't compliment her because I never sound sincere and it just comes out as forced or creepy.

I am very lucky though because whilst I am not really able to have beer (and I shouldn't really have been having it over the last two weeks, strictly speaking, because birth can happen at any time now) Tilly has been invited out to see a film with a friend and she really fancies seeing it. We can't go out together to see a film because we don't know anyone that can come over and look after the children and we already used our one contact to look after the Girlie whilst the Boy went for a blood test (to do with his diagnosis for ASD) today. So, you see, I got to go out to the pub on the Friday when my mother was coming up and then to go out with my mother's husband to the pub on the afternoon of the following Saturday. It's only fair that Tilly gets to go out with her friends like she did on the Friday night every now and again and go and see a film.

Keep me in mind when an opening occurs
for someone in this position. I'll take
it. I don't believe in reincarnation but
if it turns out that it is an option and
this opening is available can I please
be destroyed entirely to stop the
endless fucking cycle? Ta.
But, as Harry and Alice pointed out, having date nights out without children are important. But, you see, we can't organise that because there is no one to look after the children locally. And if I want to have more date nights I must first set the groundwork by actually spending time with Tilly at home and we tried having a special night on a week but then I didn't enforce it when there was a panic about the book or something else that was causing her stress. And yes, she did have to ditch this or the other night but if I don't then push for it how is she supposed to stop just using it as a normal night? Equally, setting aside a day, whilst very much the right thing to do, isn't the same as a spontaneous night that delights and proves emotional connection. And if there's an unexpected deadline or she misses a night on the book then the date night would have to be scotched anyway and there might not be any warning and if she's under stress then the last thing she wants is for me to talk about a date night. Yes, if I push it she will tell me to fuck off and get angry about it, but that's fine because then she would think about it and maybe after a week or two realise that I was right. A warning though, then she might resent it a little and yes she would nag a bit more to compensate but the important thing is that she would know I was right and the next time I asked it would work, you see. Unless I asked to early after the blow up and then her resentment would probably fuel further anger and then I'd have to wait longer.

Unless I waited too long and then what would be the point anyway, right?

After all, I am the one with the problem, both the depression and the AS, so she's totally happy with the way things are and so I need the therapy, not her. And she'd be totally up for couples' therapy, where did I ever get the idea that she wasn't? When? Oh, well, not any time soon because there's no way to get anyone to look after the children. And certainly not on a night when she has to work on the book. Well, okay then, not whilst she has a book to work on. And yes, she did once say that she wasn't up for couples' therapy because ultimately it is me who is unhappy and needs fixing, not her. And no, she wouldn't have much to say at a therapy session, I'd have to explain how I thought it would help. You know, couples' therapy probably wouldn't help, but if I think it would be helpful to have Tilly there then we'd have to arrange it. But no, she doesn't think it'll do anything. When did she ever say it would?

I feel like a lemon - bitter and oddly shaped.

Thursday, 16 March 2017

Porsche with no brakes

Oh look, it's tidier than my desk at work.

At least I have a desk at work.
I managed to mark last night, which was nice. I managed to function today too, which was similarly nice. It should be clear by now that I am not operating under any great adversity, nothing like 2011 when this blog was begun, and that my travails are really only travails because I am a bit rubbish at dealing with them. Part of that is AS but the vast part of it is my innate and abiding laziness and perspective about what life is actually about and what one can expect from it. Sod millennials, I am your entitled majority.

I made a student cry with a timed exam today and another complained that it was unfair to tackle it a day after discussing the technique required and at the end of a course covering the stuff needed as more time revising would be necessary. I also got a passive aggressive e-mail from another student claiming that if I had given them time to explain they would have said about the e-mail with work being sent being sent on time (to a made up e-mail account, how were they to know it wasn't my school address?) except that they did explain this in the lesson in question and I pointed out then (and again in my reply) that the e-mail address was made up (it ended with a .isl code, which isn't even a real thing) and thus it mattered not when it was sent because I would never receive it! Another student, taken to task for playing tag by running about like an eejit indoors, responded with a sarcastic "what you think lunchtimes are for?" - they were not prepared for me to shout it was for eating lunch and that they were at big boy school now where people ate lunch rather than ran around in prohibited areas playing tag. Age patriarchy. I am both its bitch and enforcer.

Aye, like this. But 4'11"
All that and this morning's dream was a confused melange of the current plot in Misfile and being shorter. I used to know a colleague who was female and 4'11". What if I were a female that size? Would I wear heels and what difference would that make with students anyway? Would I have long or short hair? Bangs or tied back? If heels, what height and why? Where would one buys suits and how irritating would it be to access high cupboards and basic kitchens? I got to thinking about it and came to the conclusion that if I were shorter I would wish to be taller, if I were female I would wish to be male and generally I would remain dissatisfied with pretty much every part of me physically and mentally much as I am now - these are fundamental aspects of being me and not so much culturally or socially conditioned as they were me. A clear advantage of AS is that I am less susceptible to social conditioning and socialisation because my thoughts are not the thoughts of most of society. I am an outsider less by choice and more by dint of the fact that I don't take things for granted in the same way. I still take things for granted, but different things and for different reasons.

Some of these I get, some of these... not so much
How much of my own openness about TG and trans issues stems not from my identification with them or my own confusion over my gender but rather from my observation of the way human beings work. I have spent all of my life studying humans in a way that few other humans have to or want to, and I have discovered that this has provided me with insights that few others share and ways of studying that allow me to peek beneath the veil in what other people see as unexpected ways. Such as noticing how people write at speed (or don't) and spotting emotions they thought hidden whilst at the same time being utterly unable to interpret the welter of verbal and non-verbal cues that people use to ground everyday speech. In short, I don't 'get' the social construction of most gender identities and expectations in the same way that most humans see them as immutable (and they are different for different groups of humans).





Just observations tonight, nothing special. No beer now until after the birth in case I need to drive Tilly to the hospital. Bugger.

Tuesday, 14 March 2017

Failure to Work

Struggling to work this evening and then I thought "fuck it" and stopped trying to work. I seem to be losing my evenings increasingly to getting tired and grumpy and watching youtube. I haven't even written up the beer blog post about my recent weekend and the ales that I was able to try (some lovely dessert stout on the Saturday along with a velvety smooth humdinger of a stout on the Friday, thanks for asking). Instead I watch gaming videos. Last night I shared some videos from Sia with the Girlie and made-believe that I can do that without any comeback. One of the videos was a fan-made one (I think) to accompany one of her songs featured, I believe, in some film or other. This one:


To add colour.

Love the watch there though. And the
dress looks rather lovely and comfortable.

Comforting?
Did you spot the sequence where there's a burned cot and it is heavily implied a baby died in it? Girlie did and has spent the day following anxious about it to the point where her incessant talking about it has sparked the Boy into feeling sad and being unable to get the idea out of his head. Great. Honestly, I shouldn't really be allowed to sit and share things with my obviously vulnerable children. Further evidence, I feel, that I am a bit broken when it comes to socialisation. Maybe that's just me, maybe it's medical, maybe it's something to do with my own upbringing or some mutant combination of the three but, whatever, it's my responsibility and, as I have said here before quite a lot, responsibility means blame.

The time draws nearer. The Boy has been struggling to sleep and he's spent a couple of nights in with us in bed, which is fine. Tilly's mania has translated into cleaning, usually a sign of impending birth, and I have been finding it harder to get out of bed in a morning again. Part of this is dreams that I'm having again. Not just the Holocaust kind or the End of the Third Reich dreams. No, we're back to gender-flipping and finding scenes in webcomics hard-hitting again. For example, you may remember me banging on about Misfile as being one of those comics that match the interests of the vast majority of people that would visit this blog. Here's one of the latest strips:

There's the page before as well.

I don't know about you, but that seems awfully pertinent to many people's struggles and, well, oddly hard-hitting following on from the dream sequence I shared the last time I mentioned it. Is that not what being genderqueer is on some level as well? I can't claim the pain of GID but I can claim that my gender identity is somewhat unsettled and confused.


Aw Hell yeah!
In my dreams I find that I am often sexless, in the sense that my genitalia is not really a major part of the dream or the feelings that are associated with it. Instead I find myself in male and female clothing and with feelings of dislocation and confusion in both sets of clothing but also feelings of intense contentment - if such a thing can be described in such a manner - again in both sets of clothing. There is an element of dominance in there, both by and over me, which usually lends itself to me becoming aware of the dream and then starting my usual more conscious take-over of the plot points. Soon after I wake up. However, the dominant (or submissive) role that is not me is played by a female, some faceless and formless combination of my Mad-Ex and various tropes from sites like Fictionmania and BoundLife. I have no great insight there, just sharing the information.

I really don't think I am in any way alone in having this kind
of 'sexy thought' about handcuffs and wearing them for
protracted periods, but I do rather feel that the chance to
indulge those thoughts is pretty vanishingly rare.

And, having got that chance to indulge them, I ended up
denuding the experience of any kind of 'sexy thought'
accompaniment and actively subvert what my Mad Ex
was trying to do. Something that I am still unable to fathom.

That is, my action and what she was trying to do.

Is that stupidity or is it treas- no, wait, I'm not Milyukov or
Nicholas II. Basically, am I stupid or is this down to my oft-
quoted but as yet undiagnosed AS?
I also keep returning to that night, or day, when I was handcuffed by my Mad-Ex and then needed the toilet. If you recall, and I'm sure you do with crystal clarity because why wouldn't you (that was sarcasm), she then asked if I needed any help when I was in the bathroom. I said no. Later she would claim that she had lost the keys to the handcuffs when she came to help me in the bathroom. Bear in mind she had never been in the bathroom. I always wonder what would have happened had she come to 'help' and if she would have indeed 'lost' the keys. Then what? Why did I turn her down? What about the 'help' she offered - I highly doubt it was 'help' as in helping me go to the toilet. I turned her down. Not for the first nor the last time either. And I wonder what would have happened had I embraced her attempt to embrace my cross-dressing and how different my life would have been. That has been back on my mind lately. Probably down to the fact that Tilly is more obviously pregnant and clearly due to give birth any time now.

Which is terrifying. What if number three is autistic as well? What if it isn't?

And  brought to mind a house I once viewed before I bought the one that ended up being such a horrible sink of money. A year earlier than that I viewed a back-to-back house with two bedrooms and two rooms downstairs. This house had a door in the bathroom that looked like a cupboard door that led to a 'spare bedroom' - boarded loft area with carpet and a skylight, some insulation on the rafters and a bed - but you had to stand in the bath to get through the door. If Tilly had moved in there would I have told her about the extra room? Would I have used it to cross-dress on my own in the evenings (yes) and then continued to use it after meeting Tilly (harder to say)? This musing brought up in my head on the way back from getting some bread tonight. Having supermarkets within walking distance is bad for my girth.


Sunday, 12 March 2017

Address in a Dress

It has pockets! What's not to love?

Specifically, something like the dress above. It's like a status update but with more cursing. We'll live like Kings, damn Hell-ass kings!

Saw this ages back and have no excuse to post it
except for the fact that I think it lovely.
First of all, cross-dressing. With a small child on the way and with things the way they are (my wardrobe is in a box atop the actual wardrobe in the bedroom where Tilly will be spending more and more time) I suspect that this will finally not only drop from the top spot but will likely disappear altogether very soon. There is also the fact that the whole affair will get rarer again, when the last child was small there was a long wait. This blog opened, in 2011, with a tale about me having gone out walking in high heels in October of that year. It was a week after I had managed to grab a moment in the morning before work to do something in a dress which, in turn, was about two and a half years since I'd last done it before Tilly was pregnant with the first of our children. In short, children seem to put a brake on things. And there is definitely a brake on cross-dressing at the moment. So, there's that point.

Also the fact that I know I look nothing like I would like to look in a dress. To whit, either of the dresses shown so far would not look nearly as lovely on me.

This is lovely too. I love the way the skirt-line works on this
one and the boots just set the whole thing off.

Am I shallow and skin-deep on looking at this? Yes, yes I am.

Those heels though.
Second, there is the stuff at work. Been at my new place as long as I've ever managed to stay at one place of work so far and my flaws are catching up with me. The Head has decided that I might have to make a sideways move, ostensibly to ensure we don't lose talent in my Department but both he and my immediate boss have mentioned the fact that I shan't "have to worry about" results in GCSE too much for it to be coincidence. It is truth that my results are not good and that I have not managed to arrest the bottoming out for the last four years. In truth I despair of doing so - I do not do well when students have to be spoon-fed as I encourage more independent approaches and work better with students who are enthusiastic. Alas, that is not what is required in the educational establishments that I have worked in so far. I'm sure they are still out there but I am equally sure that I don't interview well enough to work at such places and my track record with results is poor - as evidenced, and thus I am trapped for the moment until they find a way to remove me from the productive flow. We shall see. In the meantime I feel pretty bad. Possibly down to autism.

Yes, this is often how I feel I relate to the world. Or, rather, how the interface
with the day to day stuff feels like when reviewing it.

I'm not sure how to explain why this matches how I feel.

It is the visual equivalent of my last post on here, actually, yes, that.
Ah, yes, autism. Some years ago we had issues with the Girlie blowing up like a lunatic and I got a nice e-mail that correctly identified many autistic traits on display. I pooh-poohed it. I was wrong. The Boy has now been diagnosed and he is autistic, very Aspergic, and the chances are that the Girlie is too. Quelle surprise. If there was any doubt remaining about me then I would argue that this dispels it. On that note, the issues I highlighted when researching this seem undiminished. I am at peace with the idea that I and my children are Aspergic. I quite like what it allows me to do and who it allows me to be. However, it does not do well in relationships and it certainly does not do well in the relationship in which I find myself. For illustrative purposes, we had our doula over this weekend, apparently to include me in proceedings. With the Boy, the meeting with the doula was the part where I felt I was able to get involved and help. This time... well, this time the doula is also a friend of Tilly's and so much of the time was spent discussing anecdotes and, well, friend things. My presence was entirely superfluous and, because I am Aspergic, I zoned out entirely which further encouraged my isolation. Oh, and the doula was unaware that I was Aspergic. So... that went well.

Would that we could all look as if we
were enjoying ourselves that much
when feeling trapped.

Emotions trap differently though.
Moving on. My mother's husband has incurable cancer. He was up with her this weekend and I think it all went rather well, truth be told, the children mobbed my mother and she felt that was right and proper. So, good. I took him out to my favourite local pub and he was pleasantly surprised, I don't know what it was that he had been expecting but this was not it and he was mightily impressed. He left saying that he was planning a trip there with some mates - without me - because it was so nice. Okay, it was tactfully put and I wholly support that (means it was genuinely somewhere he liked) but there is that realisation that I'm not terribly good at this making friends part.

On that, yes, sixthly, there's been some of that at work. Several of my colleagues have formed networks in the last year with my new newb and my former newb making a network of people that are gaming geeks but I'm not part of that. New newb also happens to play football, penetrating that group within a week and then going on two holidays with them so far and counting. Harry has been taken in to the main group at work too, having now several networks on which to rely whilst Alice luxuriates in the status of new parent and takes part in that gaming geek world that I would love to be part of but have been carefully not invited to anything so far. In short, I don't seem to penetrate friendship groups terribly well. Except that...

Because University, that's why.
A good friend of mine from University has been undergoing a torrid time lately that I have only been semi-aware of until recently. They had been reading Perry Grayson's Descent of Man which is quite something given that the book hasn't been out that long. I digress. Suffice to say that, because I have AS, I was a bit shit at being supportive and initially went for the positive approach. Which is not only singularly unhelpful, it also kind of sounds shit to the person who needs a rant. I finally got round to responding a little more helpfully and then was blindsided by the fact that this friend of mine had been struck by the need to form more lasting friendships. In hindsight I ought to have pointed out that the reason for this sudden need was an unusual one and not at all indicative of my friend, as the main reason was something of an outlier case and my friend was something less than a normal (as in average or normative) case of that sub-set anyway. I did not because I was still trying to work out how to respond to being called a friend in that rather more intimate setting and situation (online mind you). AS, ain't it grand?

Society discourages male friendships, sure, but sometimes
it's down to the bloke being shit at fitting in after the initial
honeymoon period.

Add it to AS and there is a heady brew, methinks.
Speaking of that whole thing, I was reminded that I tend to fail rather hard only after I have been welcomed into a community. I am good at the early stuff, the grand gestures and the big swing of the inclusive arm. However, I suck later on because I'm still gesturing grandly whilst other people are becoming more intimate and nice and helpful and, well, like normal people. I never seem to progress that point because I'm not entirely sure how it works nor why people seem to rate that so much more highly. Also, yes, I get bored of people all up in your face (this is at work with Harry) and I can come back round to that when I'm not struggling through work and having a rushed lunch with a youtube video. It'll get back to normal, I know it will, but in the meantime I guess I must look rather rude and ineffective.

Which is probably how I seem to Rhiannon lately, who really needs support and good feelings. I can offer her no advice on how to deal with her current crises, which is fine as it's not about me, but I am at a loss as to how to express my support for her and all who are with her. Other people find some excellent and very supportive and helpful ways of saying this. I don't seem to be able to do that. I can't even transmit to Terri any kind of support and cheerleading as she gets her groove on in many ways and worries over changes elsewhere. I haven't even been commenting at Dee's place simply because I never know what to say and others say it better. Mind you, I've been out of practice, having not written here in an age either.

All of which brings me to the final point of this post: my beer blog is now updated for a long time yet. There is a baby coming. My evenings are about to get a whole lot more full and that means that I shall probably be back here more rather than watching videos and drinking beer.


Tuesday, 7 March 2017

Beaker

For the first time in a long time I am worried about being observed. I had thought this was behind me, the idea that I could bring myself down through my actions and sabotage. I had assumed that I had the patois down pat, the process honed. I have reached the part where I could dine out a bit.


Increasingly I find it hard to be motivated, to build new resources and lessons, to be present in the moment. Nothing has changed and I'm not standing on a cliff-edge, this is not the start of depression or anxiety or anything like that. This is me, this is who I am and this is how things are, how things have been and how things will be. I worry and obsess over things: my hair; my job; my tasks; my timetable; me me me.

Start with this page (or the previous) and
read.
In terms of hair I have deliberately pushed for a less masculine look, I am trying to grow bangs. I am inspired by the hairstyle sported by Ash at the webcomic Misfile - there's a link somewhere on the right I think - and I am minded to be more me in public. Why not? I am struggling to focus on the important for the looming image of myself as I stop looking in the mirror again, as I stop wanting to see myself or others, as I withdraw from the social scene again. My mother's husband has been diagnosed with incurable stage 2 cancer. What can I do? It barely registers, I don't know the man all that well. It must be horrible for him and his family, it must be horrible for my mother. But I had tea to cook and lessons to plan, a trip to organise and worry about. I have a study to be paid for that needs to be completed, a risky observation lesson to plan and make look good (even though it won't be very good). Exploratory discussions on divorce, cohabitation, Neo-Malthusianism, environmentalism and Russian political history. Lectures on Labour's economic performance in the 1960s, the development of the industrial revolution and the invasion of France in 1940. Debates on Appeasement, the impact of Feminism and Marxism, the development of TNCs. Guidance on drug use, videos from Sia, gaming, misogyny and sliding discipline standards. Management, impending birth and cookery.

And I feel nothing again. Not the numbness of depression but an absence of feeling. Nothing. Emotion pricks with lyrics and music combined, as it always had: manufactured by the song-makers and the singers and the musicians and the studio engineers. Buying in to it, jealous of the costume and the spectacle and the ability to sing in tune and with a beat and dance to a rhythm.


End of the Third Reich dreams I used to call them. Those dreams of being in the armed forces against overwhelming forces, staring defeat and oblivion in the eyes, knowing that the cause was unjust, the reasons paltry and evil and knowing that the coming justice was deserved. Fighting for spite, knowing that the stand was pointless but seeing no other choice. Lately the military aspect has declined and, instead, it is Holocaust dreams. Not a victim, but seeing it develop around me, though there is no me in the dream just a fixed viewing point. Seeing the pain and feeling nothing. Seeing the development in buildings and encroaching darkness, complex intrigues doomed to fail, chances of redemption subsumed in flame and destruction. Helpless, observing, black and white.


Drilling, said the Pet Shop Boys, Always someone drilling, somewhere in the city: authorised by committee - permission is bestowed according to postal code. But there is no drilling. There is no event to be after and there are no speeches to talk about what has happened. Discussion of reality, feeling it all slipping beyond my grasp as the world continues to hurtle to confusing lows and spirals in the news. I have wondered and I have predicted the apocalyptic events that now, looking around, are normalised, no cause for alarm. No cause for alarm. And I realise that I am Aspergic. I can't cope with the welter of events, I can't find a flat surface on which to stand, I can't understand what people are saying next to me but I can draw complex meaning from news reports, comedy and snatched sections of news reports. I can barely plan to keep hydrated but I can lose myself for days in a single line of a piece of music. I'm a mess got to get out now, gotta run from this: here comes the shame. Here comes the shame.


Oh, I don't know. This isn't the post I was planning to write.