Writing the Day

EveryWrongDirection
Aug 12
5 min read

Writing the day Tuesday August 12^th

6:30am. It’s hot. Already. I’m not enjoying climate change much so far.

I’m hot and sticky and tired and guilty.

Guilty because I’m hot but so very alive.

I have water and food and shelter from the heat. I still have all the trappings afforded us by late-stage capitalism in the developed west at the end of the first quarter of the 21^st Century. I have clean, albeit, bottled and filtered water; I have electricity and plumbing; I have the internet and television and all my Things, so many Things. Too many Things. Not for the first time, I fanaticise about downsizing. I’ll get rid of my smart phone, socials, the constant Noise added to my already busy brain.

I’d like to continue writing my book about the positive applications of AI, I’ve done so much research but I’m now wondering if it’s too late – is it too late to alter what appears to be AI's sinister programming and almost aware progression? Too late to be hopeful as we slaughter the planet and each other? And that is why I must remove myself from social media – I often yearn for a romantic idea of “olden times”, ignoring the rotten teeth, young and high mortality rates and the actual PLAGUE with no NHS while I'm entertaining fantasies of “Days of Yore” – but the fact is, we now absorb more information in one day than a medieval peasant learned in a year! Thereby stems the fantasy – simplicity, peace. It should be so easy to divest ourselves and yet…

So here I am again Writing on actual paper with an actual pen I could live in a cave and carve glyphs on a wall. For the next ones to find and interpr…NO! THIS IS NOT A POEM!

Not a poem, not today. It’s more of a confessional really, or a to do list. To Do:

1. Find the “happy little girl”

Except that I’m not sure I really was a happy girl. Recent unmasking has showed me that all that smiling, laughing, joking was my way of coping. If I really think about my childhood, my thoughts – when alone – were dark, sad, often bordering on death-wishing. I’m not really that positive. How could I be with my mother’s persistent catastrophising influence and my neuro-divergence, my absent father and the state of the world? And yet, if all that smiling and laughing is as good for our well-being as science suggests, then Little Me knew what I needed but Big Me too often forgets. Even in the mud-swamped refugee camps of Calais, clowns play with the children. I hope they play with the adults too. Even as the people of the Democratic Republic of Congo, Afghanistan, Yemen, Haiti, Sudan, Northern Ethiopia, Syria, the Sahel, Somalia, Gaza and elsewhere starve – people still sing. I hope for miracles - that somehow they all survive and thrive. Perhaps this really all is some kind of intergalactic experiment and our best coping mechanism really is to keep laughing, to keep loving. I don’t mean toxic positivity whereby we ignore and pretend that we are not living in a swamp of greed with active geysers of corruption spilling out all over the place. I’m not suggesting we be collectively, consciously-unconscious while all our chickens come home to roost and crap on our heads. I mean for us to recall the duality of human nature, duality and maybe more. Maybe, a soul is inifinite – I mean, whatever you believe you don’t actually know, right? If my soul is infinite and I behave as if it isn’t then I’m in for a lot of bad debt. If it isn’t infinite and I behave as if it is then at least I’ve lived a good life. So logcially, we all need to act as if we have a soul and that the soul is infinite. We actually have to “LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE”.

To Do:

1. Find the “happy little girl” just in case I have an infinite soul and, if she was faking it, teach her how to laugh. If she wasn’t, then I’ll learn from her.

Loving was always the easy part, and I’ve fine-tuned it now, having learned so much about boundaries from my children and my lovers. Laughing – I just need to go out sometimes. People often depress me, bore me, exasperate me but we do make each other laugh, and often. Live – this is the most difficult task as chronic diseases, PTSD and moderate to raging despair stand at checkpoints in my flat. There’s one at the sofa – “Are you sure you need to rise? Well, ok then, but just five minutes then straight back here, ok? I’m watching. I have your best interests at heart you know.” There’s one at the bedroom door. “No point coming in here unless you’re changing into clean pyjamas or going to bed. You have nothing to wear. You’re fat and aging and unwell and your pyjamas are the only comfortable clothes you own. I have your best interests at heart you know.” I hate this voice the most. I am fat and aging - and? I have three wardrobes and two chests of drawers bursting with wonderful clothing - comfy, glam, sexy, smart, hippy, sensible and indescribable outfits that used to bring me so much joy. Clothes for all moods and occasions but my gaoler denies me access. The third stands at the front door. “Turn back, you’re too ill. Your body can fail you in a number of ways. It’s too hot. Or too rainy/cold etc. I have your best interests at heart you know.”

What the hell, I used to love weather? All three of these narcissistic, gaslighting demons are constantly reminding me “Don’t ask for lift or help of any kind – your friends are sick too; or busy at work and with their families. Don’t bother people. STAY HOME. We have your best interests at heart you know.” I am becoming defiant. Of course, I am chronically diseased in a number of ways. I must listen to my body. I just need to filter out the gaolers’ voices and discover what I can do. Does anyone want to drive me to the woods, please? Like an actual plan not just a WhatsApped intention. Anyone else want to invite me to something dressy? Once I’ve recovered from the woods, obviously. And could someone please take me shopping?