When all your skills desert you
Apr. 13th, 2011 01:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceYou can tell I'm a mess, when I can't even shop right. I had two retail catastrophes this morning: a carton of olives split in my hands and oozed oil everywhere, so I had to walk out of the store; and a book purchase turned out not to be a bargain after all because I'd misunderstood the signage, so I had to walk away from the till.
And this was after I'd walked away from the Lit & Phil, because nothing was going right there either.
It's really odd, watching myself this way. It's not like I'm another person, I recognise myself all too intimately; but this is the other Chaz, the flip side. The one that can be truly scared of the dark, and too frightened to pick up the phone. The one who feels always on the edge of tears, but it's the back edge: after the storm and the distress, when there's nothing left but a passionless desolation. The one who's tissue-paper sensitive and brutally clumsy at the same time, who upsets his friends and himself and can't bear the world and can't do anything.
Birds build – but not I build; no, but strain,
Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Yeah. That. And I hate that too, that I have the right tag for it. And that I can sit here and blog about it. Everything's recursive, it's what I do: and of course I do it to myself, that's how fiction happens. And sometimes it's just contemptible.
And this was after I'd walked away from the Lit & Phil, because nothing was going right there either.
It's really odd, watching myself this way. It's not like I'm another person, I recognise myself all too intimately; but this is the other Chaz, the flip side. The one that can be truly scared of the dark, and too frightened to pick up the phone. The one who feels always on the edge of tears, but it's the back edge: after the storm and the distress, when there's nothing left but a passionless desolation. The one who's tissue-paper sensitive and brutally clumsy at the same time, who upsets his friends and himself and can't bear the world and can't do anything.
Birds build – but not I build; no, but strain,
Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Yeah. That. And I hate that too, that I have the right tag for it. And that I can sit here and blog about it. Everything's recursive, it's what I do: and of course I do it to myself, that's how fiction happens. And sometimes it's just contemptible.