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!

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.

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